The Weight of Failure
by Maya Perez
Summary: Dean has just been killed and Lilith has escaped. How are Sam and Bobby to cope when all their plans have failed? Set right at the end of Season 3
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Bobby checked his pocket watch again. It was two minutes after midnight. Frowning, he stared out the window of the house toward the two story home across the street. The sprinkler system was still spewing blessed water, keeping a ring of demon possessed people outside the house's perimeter. Most of them shifted from foot to foot, chomping at the bit for a chance to dash inside.

"Come on, you two…"

The fact the demons were still there and that nothing major seemed to have occurred yet gave him a flicker of hope they might somehow pull this off. The odds were so stacked against them. And if there was something he knew the Winchester clan didn't get a lot of, it was for things to go down easy. Yet he hoped this once, that just this once, they would. Dean's life depended on it.

A brilliant flash of light blazed through the downstairs windows of the house, bathing the street and making it seem as if it were day.

Booby felt his heart skip a beat in fear, having heard from the boys that a bright light was a manifestation of Lilith's main power – a very strong demon's power – a power that had killed a roomful of people with the flicker of an eye at a sheriff's station. And Lilith was the demon who held Dean's contract and owned his soul. The very thing they were trying to keep her from collecting that night.

The demons around the house froze. As one they looked up toward the roof of the house. A column of black smoke rose from one of the chimney's and raced with purple lightning off to the north. Staring in that direction, one after the other, the possessed neighbors opened their mouths and released the demon essence housed inside them. Like a turbulent storm, they mingled with each other and raced after the first.

The vacated meat suits dropped onto the wet grass one by one, like discarded folds of skin. With any luck most of them would survive their ordeal. He already knew of a handful that wouldn't be coming back this night.

Bobby's mind raced, not sure whether to take what he'd seen as a good sign or not. If it was some sort of trick, he wasn't sure what it was supposed to accomplish. Debating with himself but a moment longer, he grabbed his shotgun and headed for the room's door and the set of stairs beyond. Fear and hope warred inside him, having no idea what it was he would find next door.

Knowledge was power – the lack of it a sure way to make yourself a victim. It was something he'd learned long ago the hard way. But he'd also learned from those two boys that sometimes knowledge wasn't enough. Sometimes it just took raw courage, brute stubbornness, and an unwillingness to give the bad guys the satisfaction. Yet there were also times when no matter what you did, it would never be enough.

He hoped to Heaven and back this would not be one of them.

Bobby stepped inside the house, holy water dripping off him from his rush through the sprinklers. An old woman's body lay rotting on the floor just inside, a putrid smell rising from her as gnats and other insects fed on her decomposing corpse.

A glance toward the living room showed the remains of a large birthday cake and the slumped much fresher body of an older gentleman. A man whose death they'd unfortunately witnessed while trying to figure out which of the denizens inside might be possessed by Lilith.

He felt an unwanted shiver course through him, only too familiar with demons and the devastation they tended to leave in their wake. Rare as their appearances had been but a handful of years before, they'd almost become the flavor of the week in the monster problem list, even more so after the opening of the Devil's Gate.

That the escaped demons hadn't gone off and performed more damage than they had was a blasted miracle. There just weren't enough hunters in the world to be able to stop them all if they set their minds towards chaos and destruction. It didn't mean that whatever end game they were actually working on wouldn't make up for this seeming lapse though.

Getting involved had never been his thing. He'd known too many hunters who'd met their ends early due to working cases directly. Accumulating knowledge was what he'd set his task to once he'd stumbled onto others like him, those rare few who knew there were things out there hunting and killing mankind for food or sport. He shared the information he gathered with one and all, anyone who came asking once he was sure they were clean. And in return he only requested they let him know what they knew or learned, trying to collect as much information as possible to pass on to those who contacted him, to help them destroy the things that went bump in the night.

Matters had escalated too much to just sit back anymore though. That and despite promises he'd made to himself long ago, he'd found himself caring for an obsessed lunatic and his two kids. Two kids who grew up and through no fault of their own had been plopped right smack in the middle of the biggest thing to threaten mankind since the demon scourge of the 1500's.

Bobby hesitated in the beige colored hallway, listening for any telltale signs. Whatever had gone down he was pretty sure it had been downstairs, but not exactly where. Picking a direction at random, he stealthily pushed on to find those whom he sought.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

"No…" Sam's lip quivered, the cold realization of what he was looking at flushing through him. "No…" It was never supposed to have ended this way.

A tear overflowed and hung off the tip of his nose as Sam knelt before Dean's body. His breath rushed in and out, denial screaming at the proof before him as he placed his hand under the back of his brother's neck and pulled Dean's head off the floor. He felt numb, dangling on the edge of a precipice, unable to process all the things that had just happened. "Dean…"

There was blood. So much _blood_. It covered his brother like an extra piece of clothing, flowing from him to the floor, seeping into Sam's jeans, his shirt, his exposed skin. The cloying, thick smell of it wove around him making him want to gag.

His brother's chest was torn to shreds in long clawing ribbons, the bone peeking through the quickly coagulating blood. He knew, from having been forced to watch while pinned by demonic forces to the wall, that Dean's shoulder, leg, and back weren't much better. But that wasn't the worst of it. Not by far. Dean's blood splattered face was slack and expressionless and far from its usual norm. His open eyes were lifeless and cold, staring away into nothingness. Everything that had given them life, everything which made them Dean, lost forever.

Sam's eyes burned, tears running silently down his face, mingling with the spilt blood, his worst nightmare come real. He grabbed his brother's lifeless body and held it tight, feeling the warmth seeping out of the flesh now that his heart no longer beat to warm it.

He'd had a year, a year to make sure this didn't happen and he'd failed. Everything he'd tried, every line of inquiry he'd pursued, all useless, all dead ends. And at the last, his brother had told him to let it go, to just let him die if that was what was meant to happen. Yet their last moments together had been stolen, soiled by betrayal. Lilith had supplanted Ruby's meat suit in a vain attempt to get the demon killing knife. When Dean realized who she truly was she'd pinned Sam to the wall to watch as she gloated and allowed her hellhound entry into the room so it could rip his brother apart. And he'd been able to do nothing!

He'd been totally at her mercy as she laughed at his pleas for her to stop. His brother's screams of pain had hammered at him and his helplessness, while Lilith boasted the whole time as she prepared to destroy Sam as well. She'd barely paid attention as Dean was torn to pieces – as if it had mean nothing.

Sam felt it again, that faint twinge of glee that if Dean was going to die, he would soon die with him, saved from the agony of doing without him, spared the pain he'd already experienced once months before in the Trickster's twisted timeline where his brother had left him all alone. But no, he hadn't been spared. Lilith flashed him with her power and instead of searing his flesh from his bones and killing him, it had done…nothing. Absolutely nothing…

He bent over his brother's body, his insides cramping with sudden pain. He was the last. Though it had all hinged on him and by rights he should have been the one to die to prevent all the disasters which had followed him ever since he'd been born, he was the one who'd survived – every last Winchester gone from the face of the Earth but him. He didn't even have the decency of dying when he should. And while he sat there immune to one of the most powerful demons walking the planet, his brother's soul had been dragged down to Hell to spend an eternity in torment to possibly be turned into one of the very monsters they fought. Sam wasn't worth it. Had never been worth it. How was he supposed to repay his brother for that? _Ever_?

"Dean, how could you leave me?" His torn voice echoed in the silent room but received no answer.

Sam held onto his brother's body as if by will alone he could somehow bring him back. What good was this curse of demon blood if he didn't even have the power to keep his brother from the devil's pit? What was he supposed to do now? How would he ever fix this? Bile rose in his throat, a voice deep inside telling him it was impossible. Not in a thousand years would there be a way for him to undo what had been done. His chest grew so tight he couldn't breathe.

"Please, God, _please_. Help him. Please help my brother. He doesn't deserve this..."

But Dean didn't believe. Would that keep him from getting God's help if there was help to be had? There had to be an answer somewhere. Someone had to know something. It just couldn't end like this!

Dean had once insisted that neither he nor his father had ever needed him. That they were independent and could be on their own, unlike him. He'd had it wrong. Dean had always been the glue, the family's center. But even when that broke apart, some part of Sam, some piece of him had always known that if he needed Dean, if he ever got into trouble, his older brother would come at a moment's notice. That no matter what happened between them or what choices they made, Dean would always be there for him. Their independence hadn't been real, they just took him for granted. Dean caring about them had been a constant nothing could change or pry asunder. Who wouldn't be able to take risks and go their own way when they knew, really knew, that no matter what happened, they would always have a place to go back to, someone who would care about them unconditionally and without reservation. That was Dean! And he was gone. Sam's safety net was gone. For the first time in his life, he was truly and irrevocably alone.

"Sam? Dean?"

He flinched. Shame and guilt flashed through him at the familiar voice. He held Dean's body tighter willing Bobby not to come there, not to see his failure. His stomach cramped again, knowing it was only a matter of time.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

"Hello?"

Bobby turned as a hesitant voice echoed out from a tiny slit at what might be a door leading to the basement. "Who's there?"

"Is it…is it all right to come out now? Is it over?" The door inched open just enough for him to catch a peek of a woman's pale face and dark hair.

"Not yet, ma'am. Please be patient a little while longer." Bobby moved forward cautiously and pushed the door shut. From a pocket, he pulled a small bag of salt and laid a line before the door. If these people were possessed this would keep them down there, and if not, it would keep them safe.

A large, well oiled grandfather clock showed the time at thirteen past midnight. As he continued down the way, he caught the faint smell of sulfur and something else. The sulfur might be part of the goofer dust they'd prepared earlier to try to grant Dean some protection from any hellhounds, but it could also be a sign of demonic manifestations. Neither would be a particularly good sign. Especially not as he spied the open door farther down the way. Even less as he realized the other smell mixing with the sulfur in the air was the scent of spilled, coagulating blood.

Despite himself, Bobby found his steps slowing the closer he came to the open entryway. Unwanted, a flash of his wife's bleeding, stabbed body rose up to haunt him. The minor demon's amused laughter at what he drove Bobby to do rang in his ears with her voice just before it released her body, leaving him to drip with horror and grief as his wife took her last breath in his trembling arms, the bloody knife he'd used to stop her from killing him on the floor beside him.

He'd seen his share of bodies over the years. But nothing ever prepared you to view the ones of people you knew. Would he be finding another one belonging to those who lived here? With any luck it would be the corpse of the one Lilith was inhabiting when she was destroyed. Or would it be one or both of the boys?

"Sam? Dean?" He wasn't sure if his voice shook or not. Looking past that door was proving to be one of the hardest things he'd ever done – especially after spotting the broken line of goofer dust on the other side of it.

The sight that met his hesitant, rising gaze would be imprinted in his mind forever.

Sam's right side was before him in the center of the room, his body bent almost double, his face hidden, cradling the body of his brother, rocking back and forth.

Blood spread from the two of them, already turning a brownish color. He could see where Dean's left leg had been clawed or mauled, the skin and muscle beneath torn into bloody strips.

"Sam?"

The youngest Winchester shook his head but said nothing. The rocking of his body grew in speed, his arms wrapping more tightly about his brother's body.

As Bobby slowly stepped further into the room and to the side, he caught a glimpse of Dean's slack face and open, staring eyes and knew instantly that he was dead.

He felt his knees grow weak and only through a herculean effort was he able to keep to his feet. Though they'd known it was coming, though they'd had little to no hope of success, the fact they'd lost still came as a blow.

While he'd never known anyone with as low a sense of self esteem or value as Dean, he'd also never known anyone more full of life, gumption, and love than this young man. Whether he'd wanted it or not, the boy had wormed his way into his heart, especially after he'd seen him so broken when Sam had died in his arms. That he'd stupidly sold his own soul to bring his baby brother back and given himself only a year to live had only pushed the kid in his heart that much deeper. And now he was gone – leaving a giant open hole where Dean had once been.

"Sam… Lilith's gone… The other demons are gone…" He had to swallow hard to get the next set of words out. "We need to go."

The boy finally looked up at him for the first time. His brother's blood coated his clothes, arms and face, the last making him appear as if he'd been shedding red tears. Bobby couldn't hold back an indrawn breath at the sight of Dean's torn chest, but more so at the totally blank expression on Sam's face, at the dead eyes that didn't appear to even see him.

"Why?" Sam's voice was raw.

Bobby wasn't sure of the subject of the question, though he had a pretty good idea which it probably was. He decided to take the safe choice instead. "Because we don't want to be around when the cops come to ask questions. We also don't want to be here in case those demons decide they want to come back."

"They won't."

Bobby shivered, the cold certainty in Sam's tone covered by what almost sounded like disappointment. It made his skin break out in goose flesh. "Yeah, well, you know me. Better safe than sorry." He took a step closer, again angling to the side, trying to avoid the blood spread across the floor. Both Winchesters had hazel eyes, but though one was dead and the other was still alive, both stares at the moment were too close for his liking. He didn't think he could handle too much of one for any length of time, let alone two.

Gingerly, keeping his gaze glued to Sam the whole time, Bobby squatted down by Dean's head. Very, very slowly, he reached out with his right hand, and still watching the younger Winchester for any signs of protest or rage, he closed Dean's eyes.

Though he wasn't watching him, Sam gave a long sigh when Bobby was done, almost as if he'd been released now that Dean's dead gaze was no longer on him. Sam's chin quivered momentarily, his eyes closing for a moment, then went still.

This was no easier to watch than the horrid minutes after Sam had died in Dean's arms back in Cold Oaks. That Sam got brought back so Bobby would get to witness the other side go through the same hell wasn't something he would have ever wished for. "Tell you what. Why don't I go and find something to wrap him in? Then I can leave you to it while I talk to the folks in the basement. Get some kind of story going to cover our tracks. All right?"

Sam only sighed again and said nothing. Bobby had no choice but to assume it was a yes.

He left the room a lot faster than it had taken him to enter it and was glad of it. But he also knew it was probably only a taste of things to come.


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4

As soon as Bobby left the room, Sam slumped forward over his brother's form again. There'd been no accusations, no visible signs that the older man held Sam responsible, but there would be. How could there not be? At least Bobby had done him the favor of closing Dean's eyes. He'd not been able to do so himself, their empty accusing stare drinking in all that he did and thought.

Right at that moment, Dean was in Hell, for him, being tortured, manipulated, raped, and who knew what else. And they had enemies down there. Demons who'd promised all sorts of terrible things if they ever found a Winchester there. Was Dean even now totally regretting his sacrifice? Was he doubting the fact that Sam would find a way to get him back no matter what? He'd promised he wouldn't let Dean stay in hell.

_Yes, you are_. _I'm sorry._

He jolted upright at the memory. It'd been so easy for Dean to say. But how exactly, now that they'd lost, was he supposed to do that? Knowing the things they knew, they had options. Options no ordinary human normally had. Was he just supposed to ignore that? Let it go? When he might actually be able to do something about it? _Had_ to do something about it?

He glanced at Dean's death relaxed face.

_Had to_.

"Hey… I found something to wrap him in."

Sam's head jerked up, not having heard Bobby enter again. He looked immediately away the moment their gazes met.

Out of the corner of his eye he watched Bobby spread a sky blue comforter on a clear area of the floor and then two cream colored sheets over it. He sensed Bobby shuffling his feet a little as he stood there once he was done.

"Do you want some help with him?"

Sam shook his head, still not looking at him, knowing his guilt and failure were framed around him like giant neon signs. This was a weight he would bear alone.

"Okay then. I'll go talk to the normals. Just...take your time..."

He could feel the older man's focus staying on him as he walked away.

Sam sat absolutely still for several moments after, his gaze darting about the room yet seeing nothing. Finally, slowly, he set his brother back down on the drying blood on the floor. He tried to get up on his knees and slipped, pain shooting up his hip when he landed before it dulled and became as numb as the rest of him. The blood had thickened and oozed as he moved, almost like hands trying to keep him down on the ground. He swayed as he finally made it to his feet and looked down at the shell that had once been his brother – a vessel emptied of the soul which had made it unique and so very dear. The very thing his brother would need at some point again. He must take care of it.

Stepping around to the other side, Sam spied the demon killing knife where he'd dropped it after Lilith escaped. Though he'd had every intention of plunging it into Ruby's meat suit's chest, Lilith had anticipated him and escaped out of it before he could do so. Its engraved blade gleamed with its lack of blood, unlike the wooden floor around him. Yet another matter in which he'd failed.

He reached down for the accusing blade and put it away. At least Dean hadn't been witness to that disappointment.

Shaking his head he squatted down and slipped his stained arms beneath Dean's knees and shoulders, he stood up, straining, with the body in his arms and then half stumbled over toward the clean sheets. Though largely emptied of blood, the body felt incredibly heavy, almost as if it too wanted to join the soul where it had gone.

With gentle care, he lowered Dean's broken body onto the cloth then wrapped each one individually around him, covering the whole with the comforter. Sam could no longer see the blood, the wounds, the soulless corpse that had once been his brother, yet the image of how he first found him after Lilith's leave taking glared brightly in his mind's eye. His brother was dead and he hadn't saved him.

Hands shaking, Sam knelt down to pick him up again. Dean's body felt no lighter than before. If anything, he could have sworn it weighed even more.

Slow careful steps took him out of the room into the hall, Sam's awareness fanning out like a radiating net, making sure he wouldn't bump or scrape the covered body against any walls, corners, or furniture on the way.

"Like I said, some of your neighbors will be calling for ambulances and the police." Bobby's calm, even voice trickled toward him as he reached the intersection of the hallway. "They're not going to believe what happened here. You have to give them something they can swallow or your lives will just get more complicated than before."

"Hah! Like that's possible…" Sam spotted Mr. Freemont sitting on a couch with his wife and daughter. A red angry bruise growing towards purple decorated his jaw. The same spot Dean had popped him to keep the man quiet and able to be relegated to a safe place. Even in his last minutes, Dean was working on saving other people rather than himself. Sam's eyes burned.

"Believe me, sir, I know what I'm talking about. This isn't the first situation like this we've run across."

Sam frowned, knowing Bobby's words for the total lie they were. Never had any of them been in _this_ kind of situation. He shuffled forward.

"You'll need to tell the police that you were held hostage by a group of terrorists. That they drugged and threatened to hurt your daughter if you didn't cooperate." The set of Bobby's shoulders pushed how much he wanted them to go with this. "Last night they put you all in the basement, some kind of argument breaking out between them as they waited for their target. You came out later once it got quiet only to find them gone."

Sam made it to the edge of the room. The little blonde girl sitting on her mother's lap spotted him, her eyes growing wide with fear. With a whimpering noise, she turned her face away from him and hid it against her mother's body, grabbing onto her for all she was worth.

He felt an inner flinch of pain but didn't blame her. He'd been poised to stab her with a knife not all that long ago, convinced Lilith still possessed her. Again, because of Dean, he'd learned the truth before he'd shoved the blade into her small body and made a horrible mistake. Lilith had left her. Probably ousting Rudy from her meat suit and taking it over when they split up to search for her earlier. It'd never occurred to any of them that a demon could force another out of their chosen skin and replace them. Little good the knowledge did them now.

The girl's actions brought his presence to Bobby's attention. He felt his stare flash to him for a second, most of his attention still on the Freemont's. "Sam, everything all right? I should be done in a couple more minutes."

He only nodded, saying nothing, not even slowing down but cutting past him toward the front door.

"There was a third one of you, wasn't there?" Mr. Freemont glanced back toward the hall Sam had come from.

"Oh my God…" His wife held onto their child, a hand going protectively over her daughter's already averted face as the other pointed unsteadily at what Sam held in his arms.

Mr. Freemont's face grew pale, making the rising bruise stand out in even greater contrast.

Sam ignored them all, just interested in getting his brother away from the awful place.

Someone had gone to the trouble of covering up the dead woman in the entryway. Another covered body peeked out from where it had been laid out on the floor by the doorway into the dining room.

Sam fumbled with the knob for the front door and walked out with his burden not once looking back. He tried to stomp on the temptation to set fire to the house and the whole stinking town for ever having forced them to come there.

The night air smelled of grass, water and sulfur as he stepped outside. He turned left to follow the small walkway they'd used to come at the house on their way in. He kicked the side gate open then rushed through the still spraying sprinklers, shielding his brother's body as much as he could with his own.

After he got across, he stopped and glanced back at the purified barrier for a moment, wondering why, since actual demon blood ran through his veins, the blessed water didn't hurt him. Or was he just immune to it and its power like he was to so many demonic things. Immune but impotent – helpless, always so stupidly helpless. Never able to come through when it really mattered.

His arms were screaming in protest by the time he walked the few blocks to where they stashed the Impala. Settling the wrapped bundle on the trunk lid, Sam then opened the door to the back seat before slipping Dean's body carefully inside. A shiver wracked through him as an unwanted realization flickered through. Aside from when they were kids and their father was still with them, Dean had never ridden in the back of the car except when badly hurt or dead.

The muscles at his jaw spasmed, hating himself for ever making the connection at all.

He closed the door then leaned against the roof of the car, letting the cold metal soothe his heated face. Any minute now, any minute at all, he would wake up from this horrible nightmare. He would sit up in bed and Dean would laugh at him from across the room, teasing him for oversleeping again.

His breath hitched in his throat, his heart slamming against his chest, knowing the thought for the delusional fantasy it was. His brother was dead. There would be no more teasing, no more laughing, no more stupid tricks, unless he pulled himself together and found a way to get Dean out of Hell. And to do that, he first had to get them away from here.

Pushing away from the car and shambling over to the driver's side, Sam came to a cold stop as he was about to open the door. The keys…he didn't have the keys… He couldn't drive without the keys… Unwanted, his gaze skipped over the interior of the car toward the back seat. Goose bumps raced up and down his arms and legs as he realized what he had to do next, his mind shying away at full speed from the prospect. He gazed out into the darkened streets around him looking for Bobby, for demons, for anything to delay what he needed to do. There was nothing.

Sam abruptly slammed his fist down on the door, sending pain into his hand and up his arm. Impotent! Helpless! Was he never going to get past that? What good was he if he couldn't even work himself up to get the car's stupid keys from his brother's pocket? How the hell would he ever find the strength to do whatever was needed if he could be balked so easily? The man was burning in Hell for him and he couldn't even do this one simple thing?

Angry at himself, at life, at everything, Sam jerked the back door open and dropped to his knees in the grass strip of the sidewalk. Hands trembling, he reached within the folds of the comforter and worked his way to the wrapped sheets underneath. Bile rose in his throat, the feeling rising inside him that he was a coward, a thief, groping along his brother's body for things that did not belong to him, no matter what his brother said. He shied away from the stickiness within, the soaked cloth, the sharp edge of bones, the ripped lungs and who knew what else that he encountered during his quest. Finally he felt the fabric of jeans beneath his fingers and never straying far was eventually able to find Dean's pockets and the keys to the car.

Slipping them out, he pulled his hand out, tucking the sheets back to their previous positions as he went. He scrunched his eyes shut, dropping back onto the grass and closed the door with his foot. The keys jingled in his shaking hand as he tried to get his fleeing breath back. He had to do better than this…

After a couple of failed attempts to regain his feet, Sam found himself once more leaning against the solid body of the Impala. He ran his hand softly over the black roof, having seen his brother caress the car in a similar way millions of times. "I'm sorry you're being made to carry one of us like this…" It felt odd talking to an inanimate object, but at the moment it was no more surreal than all the other things which had happened to them that night. To his brother, the Impala had been a fourth member of their little family and as big a part of their crusade as anything else. Right now, it was the only piece of it Sam had left.

Gripping the keys until they imbedded themselves into the palm of his hand, he stood up straight and reached for the handle of the driver's side door.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5

"I'm sorry, I can't stay." Bobby stared into the worried faces of Mr. and Mrs. Freemont. "If you stick to the story, you should be fine. Just remember what I told you. You'll be all right."

Mr. Freemont put his arm protectively across his wife's shoulder and nodded, though his expression didn't look so sure.

Bobby stepped out the door. "And thank you for these." He held up a couple of towels and pieces of clothing. "If anything else happens, just give a call to the phone number on the card."

Knowing there was nothing else he could do for them, he turned around and left. They'd either be able to work this out on their own or they wouldn't. At least they had each other. It was way harder when you had no one's memories but your own to get you through after facing something awful like this – no check to make sure you weren't actually insane. He wished them luck. They would need it.

Worry nibbled at him as he avoided the front yard and exited the place by the side. He noticed there were a couple of bodies slumped over on the lawn, and one man walking as if lost back and forth between two light posts. The rest of those who'd been possessed were gone. He was rather surprised not to be hearing the sounds of sirens yet.

Following the route he'd used in what felt a lifetime ago, he returned to the sprinkler system console and turned the water off. As soaked as the ground already lay around the house, the Freemonts would be safe even if for some reason one of the demons returned. It would also leave less for the police to wonder about. Some wet grass would call less attention to itself than full spraying sprinklers all on at the same time. The less questions that got asked around here the better.

Sam was weighed down, but Bobby was running behind. He hadn't liked the blank look on the boy's blood streaked face, the hollowed eyes. Sam was in shock, not thinking straight. And the last time he'd left a shell shocked Winchester alone on his own bad things had gone down, things they'd not been able to put right again. He wouldn't run the risk of something similar happening again.

He made the turn at the block where they'd parked their cars at close to a run. Relief washed through him as he spotted the Impala still parked in its spot. This was short lived, however, as he heard the engine start. Bobby dropped what he was carrying and put on a burst of speed. "Sam!"

He jumped out in front of the Impala just as it started to inch forward. "Sam, stop!" He slammed his hands down on the hood, his feet jumping back to keep him from getting hit. The squeal of brakes and the lurching stop of hundreds of pound of metal told him he might yet live another day.

Trying hard not to think about the craziness of what he'd just done, Bobby kept his hands on the car and worked his way around to the driver's door. He didn't once glance into the windshield not sure whether or not he could deal with whatever he would see there at the moment. He had to take care of things one at a time.

When he pulled the driver's door open, the car's engine was still running. Still not looking directly at Sam, he reached inside and turned off the ignition. Only then did he dare loosen a long breath of relief and actually look at his quarry.

Sam wasn't looking at him, that same blank mask covering his face as before, dried blood on his cheeks, nose, eyebrows, and forehead. Instead he sat rigid in the seat, his hands in a white knuckled grip on the steering wheel. The smell of death and blood was thick in the small space.

"Kid, I know you wanna leave this place. And I can't blame you. But you just can't take off like this." His gaze raked over the boy trying to get some hint of what was going on inside his head. "If a cop even caught a glance of what you look like right now, he'd be pulling you over in a heartbeat."

Sam blinked but still said and did nothing. Bobby wasn't even sure the kid heard him. At least his hand hadn't moved to the ignition switch to start the car again.

"I brought some stuff with me. Just give me a minute to clean you up a bit and then we can go." Bobby still saw no sign that Sam even knew he was there. "Just one minute. Okay?"

Gingerly, he reached out for Sam's left hand and pried it off the steering wheel. Sam didn't resist but neither did he help. Bobby placed the loosened hand on Sam's lap then went after the other. Once both hands were free, he reached in and grabbed Sam's legs and swiveled him to where he was sitting out the open door.

"I need to get the stuff and get one wet. I'm just going right over there." Though Sam was now facing him, his gaze only stared straight ahead as if he were blind. "Don't move."

Bobby ran back the way he'd come to gather up the discarded items then up the yard beside them, glancing back every few seconds to make sure Sam stayed put. Turning on the hose attached to the front of the house, he soaked one of the towels before rushing back.

The boy hadn't moved at all while he was gone. He wasn't sure if this was a good thing or not. Wringing the towel to get rid of some of the excess water, he tried hard not to worry about it.

"I'm going to wipe your face, okay?" Though he searched for it, Bobby still didn't see any signs Sam understood him let alone even knew he was there. It couldn't be a good.

Keeping his attention totally riveted on him, Bobby brought up the wet towel. The moment it touched his face, Sam jerked back as if slapped, his eyes widening. Bobby reached out for him. "Hey, hey, it's okay! It's only water. Just cleaning you up a little. Everything's okay."

Sam's gaze focused on him truly for the first time since he'd arrived then glanced away. "Bo-Bobby?"

"Yeah, it's just old Bobby." He patted him lightly on the shoulder, not sure if he was reassuring the kid or himself. "Only trying to get some of this stuff off ya. Be but a minute." Without waiting, he placed the towel again against Sam's face. This time Sam didn't react, though Bobby couldn't help but notice how his breathing picked up by a notch or two.

The dried blood soaked up the water and he was able to wipe it away. Using the other towel he dried Sam's face and bangs. Now for the next step. "That shirt and the one beneath it need to come off, Sam." He pulled on the boy's right arm trying to prod him into coming out of the car. "Can you come out of there and do that for me?"

Sam turned to look at the steering wheel then into the car's back seat. A moment later he gave in to Bobby's insistent pull and folded out of the car. With more prompting Bobby was able to slip off the boy's long sleeve shirt and then the blood soaked t-shirt underneath. Gooseflesh covered the entirety of Sam's muscled chest and arms though the night wasn't cold. Bobby reached up and slipped a knitted pullover over the boy's head. The shirt was too small for him but the fabric stretched. Bobby folded up the sleeves to hide the fact they were too short and then cleaned Sam's forearms and hands with the still damp towel. He wrapped the bloodied garments in the two towels then tucked them behind the bench seat.

"Tell you what, get in the passenger side and I'll drive. I can pick up my wheels later. Doubt they'll be going anywhere." He took Sam's elbow and tried to steer him away from the driver's side, but for the first time the boy balked.

"No." Sam shook his head adamantly. "Dean wouldn't like it."

Bobby stared at him in shock. "What?"

Sam shrugged out of his grip and half stumbled back onto the bench seat. "I have to…go…"

"Wait! You're not thinking straight. You shouldn't be driving right now." Bobby grabbed onto the door as Sam pulled his legs into the car. "If I can't drive the Impala, fine. Let's take my car instead. We can be back at my place by morning."

Sam shook his head again and reached for the ignition. The engine turned over. "Car…is family… Need to go…have to find…" He leaned suddenly forward, his face bunched in a grimace. He rubbed at his forehead.

"Sam… Please–" Bobby reached out to touch him and Sam batted his hand away without looking.

"Going now…" He shifted the car's gear to drive not bothering with the door.

With a curse, Bobby let go of it rather than be pulled along. Reaching in his pocket for his keys, he dashed toward his own car. "Damn that Winchester stubbornness. It's going to get me killed!" Yet despite his words, he pushed on as fast as possible, squealing tires and leaving burns on the road as he took off after the boy.

About the time they'd been on the road a good half hour, Bobby was sure that South Dakota and his place wasn't the direction Sam was planning to go as he turned off I-64 to go up US-45. There'd been the slight possibility he might have been headed for Lawrence, Kansas instead except it too would be better served by continuing on I-64 to I-70. Bobby had no idea whatsoever where Sam was heading. After a couple of hours passed, he wasn't too sure Sam knew either.

Music screamed out of the Impala at tremendous volume, AC/DC, Metallica and more filling the airwaves. It was almost loud enough to be heard by the dead. But at least Sam seemed to have some of his faculties working because aside from the too loud music, he was mostly staying around the speed limit and acknowledging the existence of traffic lights and stop signs.

It was close to six in the morning when their venture north turned westward on US-24. There'd been no stops, no breaks, nothing for the last five hours. Bobby hadn't dared let the Impala's backlights leave his sight for fear he'd never find them again. So it was with a sense of relief and unimagined surprise when he spotted the car turning in to the Midwest Motel in Forrest, Illinois.

The small motel looked to hold twelve rooms, three rooms per small one story building. A slightly larger building near the front held the office. It was something straight out of the 1960's. Sam didn't bother with the office but drove directly to park outside of room seven. The Impala gave one last throaty thrum before cutting off altogether.

Bobby parked next to it and jumped out of the car, working the kinks out of half asleep legs as he hobbled around to the Impala's driver's side. Sam's head was leaned back against the bench seat his eyes closed.

"Sam?"

With a rattling sigh, the boy pulled himself forward and sent a half glance in Bobby's direction.

"Are we stopping here? Do you want me to book a room?"

Sam just sat there. Bobby feared the drive had been too much. Just as he was about to open the car door and try to pull him out of there, Sam raised a hand and pointed at the door to number seven. "Dean and me."

It hurt. He knew he shouldn't take being purposely left out personally, but it hurt anyway. "Sure. Leave it to me. I'll see if I can get the room next door, too." He hesitated leaving. Could he trust him in this state? "Wait for me. Please, Sam."

A slow nod came a few moments later. It would have to be good enough.

Bobby left him and headed toward the office. A sign stated it would not be open till 8 am, but a buzzer for twenty-four hour service was posted to the side. He wasted no time pressing it.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6

Sam waited in the car, his stare locked on the familiar door. The Midwest Motel, room seven – strangely enough a place that had engraved itself in his mind over the years, one of the few places his family had visited more than once in his youth.

Lawrence may have been 'home' but never really to him. Like their mother, it was something taken from him before he could make true memories of it. It was something he knew about, but had no real emotional attachment to.

This place though, this place was different. Almost every year for twelve years or more, they'd come here to spend a couple of weeks every summer. He hadn't always been happy to come, but come they had – it was the closest thing to a constant his family had ever had once they'd left Lawrence. A lot of training was done in these parts with this motel as their base. Their father had been wrong on so many things, yet for some reason this place had made some sort of impression. Despite the antiquated facilities and at times run down state of the place, he'd always booked a spot months in advance, the same room, the same everything. Maybe he'd been trying to compensate for their lack of roots by giving them a place they 'vacationed' at every year that was their own. It was but one of the thousand plus things Sam would never find out about.

And though he'd come to resent the training, this was a good place with good memories. If there were ever a spot he could recall his father being almost normal, it was here. If there was ever a place they might actually pass for a normal family, it was here. Camp fires, hot dogs and burgers cooked on the grill, telling stories, not worrying as much about what was out there and how to bring it down. A place where they could pretend to have a bit of something that would never truly be theirs.

It was something that only belonged to the Winchesters. Where else would be a proper place to take his brother to but here?

"Dean, we're…home…"

The words felt hollow and false but he knew this would be the closest thing to that ideal he could find. Any other place or people which might have possibly qualified where either no longer theirs or they were dead. Their mother, their father, the house in Lawrence, Father Jim, Caleb, just about everyone and everything gone.

"Sam?"

He blinked, having forgotten about Bobby. Of the few people any of them had ever grown close to who knew what they did – he might very well be close to the last. Sam knew Bobby would help him do what needed to be done, but Bobby was also very aware as to whose fault it was it had ever happened in the first place. The only thing his curse had ever been good for was destruction. In the end it would get rid of every last thing that was his.

He took the keys out of the ignition and opened the door to get out. Bobby shuffled out of his way, his worry out where anyone could see. Sam shied away from it. "Did you get it?"

Bobby nodded and held out a key with the familiar worn green plastic tree with the name Midwest Motel hanging off the end. "No one's really around yet, so we should probably hurry and get Dean inside."

Sam couldn't have agreed more. He had a lot to do in a short time. He took the key then bounded up the familiar two steps and opened the door to the room wide. Without looking inside, he shoved the key into his pocket and leaving the door open came back to the car.

Walking past Bobby, he opened the Impala's trunk. Since Dean's original plan had been to not get Bobby involved in their troubles, they'd snuck their stuff out of his place into the car. That plan hadn't gone down as his brother had hoped, the wily man having anticipated their desertion and having none of it. At least it meant that everything Sam would need was already here.

Grabbing all the duffels, he took the lot up to the doorway of the room and dumped them inside. A small part of him marveled at how all the stuff put together hadn't felt anywhere near as heavy as his brother's empty body.

Back outside, he slammed the lid of the trunk closed and then opened the back passenger door. He hesitated then, his gaze falling on the wrapped bundle within.

"Want me to help you with him?" Bobby still hadn't moved from where he stood on the other side of the car.

Sam shook his head. This was a burden for him and him alone. "You could go buy some wood though."

"You have a place in mind around here for the pyre?"

His words percolated through the oozing fog in his mind and Sam glanced over the car's roof at him, startled. "We're not going to burn him!"

"What? But, we have to!" Bobby took a step forward, the confusion plain on his face. "We need to salt and burn him, Sam. Surely you don't want to take the risk that some _thing_ would try to use his body? Do you?"

Sam could only stare. Didn't Bobby _understand_? Had he already given up? Well it wasn't a choice he could make. "I'm not stupid. The grave will be protected. Has to be." He shook his head. "Dean has to have somewhere to come back to when I bring him back."

Not waiting to see what other arguments the older man might try to throw at him, Sam scrunched down and reached inside for the covered corpse. He never once looked at Bobby as he cradled Dean's stiffening body in his arms and headed for the open motel door.

Once inside, he let the familiarity of the simple motel room sweep over him, the outside world an inconvenience that would not intrude here. Two double full sized beds with simple dark wood headboards, beige non-descript walls with small paintings of paint by the numbers wood scenes. A miniscule bathroom off the right, a beat up yet still functional chest of drawers with a black and silver TV which was probably as old as the motel itself.

Flashes of memory played themselves in the open venue as he stepped to put the covered body on the farthest bed. Dean smacking him on the side of the head as he rushed for the room's door. Their father poking them awake at five in the morning for their warm up run. Him and Dean laughing together while watching cartoons, breakfast smelling up the place as their father cooked oatmeal over a portable camping gas stove. Their father actually smiling after a long day of training in the Humiston Woods and the Humiston Woods Prairie, as they sat watching the ratty TV set.

An engine turned over outside close to the open doorway. Guess Bobby decided to do as he'd asked or maybe he was just leaving in disgust. Either way, Sam didn't much care. The fact shocked him, but made it no less true. He wasn't sure he even knew himself anymore. Probably hadn't for some time.

That didn't seem to make much of an impact either. He closed the door into the room.

Sam went into the bathroom and stared at the familiar clear shower curtain with its myriad of sea animals. Dolphins, whales and fish had been a source of fascinating interest for him for a whole year because of this curtain. He had even toyed once with the thought of being a marine biologist, but he'd eventually shied away from it knowing the supernatural wouldn't be restricted to just the land. His life had been tainted by the paranormal from the first, even before he found out about his curse. It had colored everything back then.

Shaking his head, he unsnapped the curtain from the blue circular holders one by one.

All his roads were closed. There was but one purpose to his life right now. Folding the curtain over his arm, he dragged it back into the main room. He laid it out over the bedspread on the empty bed. Then he lifted the still wrapped body and laid it atop it before returning to the bathroom. Once there, he grabbed up the blue plastic trashcan with molded waves and placed it inside the tub. He filled it half way up with cold water.

Lugging the heavy container back out to the right side of the first bed, he went back and grabbed a couple of washcloths and set them on the night stand. He removed his watch and bracelets and set them inside the drawer. Drying flakes of brown flickered off from each one.

Drifting to where he'd dropped off the duffels, Sam grabbed them all up again and set them on the far bed. He unzipped each one and started rummaging for the things he'd need – clean clothes for Dean, scissors, needles, vicryl sutures, bandages and tape.

When he was ready, Sam turned back towards the occupied bed. He stared at the wrapped lump and shuddered at what he would have to see again. Yet it was his cross to bear – his and his alone. He would not disappoint his brother in this. Rigor mortis would already be settling in and he needed to get this done before it went too far. So Sam stepped forward and slowly unfolded the comforter. Already parts of it were stiff with dried blood and other matter which had seeped from the sheets. The air became heavy with the metallic stench of blood and released bowels. Sam kept his gaze riveted on his moving hands, not ready to look at the damage again as he pealed each layer away. Only when it was completely exposed did he dare look. He felt his breath hitch in his throat as unprepared for the view of the horrific damage as he'd been the first time.

His brother was so pale – his skin now the grayish color of the dead. The freckles his brother had always thought of as unmanly stood in stark contrast as they never had in life. His closed eyes were sunken into his skull. His curled hands had turned a pale bluish color. Lividity would have set in as well and what blood the body had left inside it would pool in Dean's skin at the lowest levels of gravity. His torn chest looked like a bowl of brown congealing jello. Sam shuddered again and closed his eyes only too clearly remembering Dean's screams as the hellhound tore him apart.

His breath fast and growing quickly ragged, Sam shook his head to dispel the awful memories. He had to live in the here and now. There were things that had to get done. He had to move, to do, to help Dean. He wiped a trembling hand over his suddenly damp brow. There was no one else to do this. No one. He extended his right hand for the pair of scissors on the night stand.

At first unsteadily and then with growing confidence, he cut away the remnants of his brother's outer and inner shirts picking out torn pieces out of the mangled flesh as he went. Dean's shoes and socks were fairly intact aside from small splotches of splashed blood. His jeans were torn and soiled so he cut them off as well knowing they couldn't be salvaged. He checked all the pockets though and set everything he found to the side to clean and inspect later. He did the same with Dean's watch, his ring and the skull bracelet.

Setting those to the side made him think of one more – Dean's necklace. With a flutter of panic, he turned to look at the body, not sure if it had made it or been torn off by the hellhound as it pureed his brother's chest. Frantic, he reached for his brother's neck feeling for the band it hung on. A staggered breath of relief escaped him as his fingers grabbed hold of it and he was able to fish out the horned head out of the muck. With great care, he removed it from around his brother's neck. Dipping it in the water and rubbing it with one of the cloths, he then slipped the talisman over his head. He bowed down, the thing feeling incredibly heavy after he put it on – a reminder of his failure. Grabbing hold of it until the horns sent pain shooting through his hand, Sam then tucked it behind his borrowed sweater, feeling the cold metal touch his skin. Dean had worn this, always, ever since the day Sam had given it to him as a Christmas gift. Sam had always felt a little awkward at how treasured the damn thing was by Dean, especially since they never found out what it truly was. Dean wore it for so long, it had become as much a part of his brother as his nose.

Sam would take the mantle now. He would wear this until he succeeded in getting Dean back. Its weight would be a constant reminder of his duty until it was done.

Once all the clothing was removed, he grabbed several towels and cleaned up as much of the outside muck as he could. Getting another clean set, he lifted and set sections of the body up long enough to pull out the sheets and comforter, setting it back down on the clean towels. Dumping the ugly mess into the tub, he set the water to run over it to dilute as much of it as it could wash away down the drain.

Leaving it to run on its own, he returned to pick up the already damp washcloth and soaked it back in the water. Wringing it out, he started at Dean's head and worked his way down, washing away as much of the evidence of his passing as he could. Once that was done, he picked up the needle and sutures and tried his best to put the pieces back together. The bandages and medical tape he used to cover the areas there wasn't enough flesh to stitch back and used them to hold the chunks of his brother inside him.

He thought he heard a car and the door to the room open at least once but he never bothered to stop long enough to find out if anyone was there or not. It wasn't important – the metal against his chest kept reminding him of that just like it was supposed to.

When he finished with the front, he tucked Dean's stiffening arm over his stomach and gingerly pushed him on his side and with more towels on that end, laid him down so he could clean and work on his brother's backside. Lividity had definitely set in giving patches of Dean's skin a deep purple hue.

A part of him kept a list as Sam went of all the scars and other disfigurements his brother had picked up in his long disreputable career. These were badges of honor. Points of pride. They were important and there were many. A roadmap of the lives they'd saved and of the things they'd fought.

Eventually he finished.

With Dean's body finally clean and stitched, Sam moved the duffels from the other bed then scooped the body up and set it down on the cleared space. The rigor was getting more pronounced, the body stiffening. He was running out of time.

Bunching up the shower curtain, towels and everything else, he dragged it all into the bathroom and ditched them into the tub. The comforter and sheets were gone from the tub making him frown, but only for a moment. They didn't matter in the least.

Stumbling back out into the room, he gathered Dean's clean clothes and dressed him. He put his watch and other items back on as well after cleaning them up. They were Dean's, he should have them. Back aching from all the bending and lifting, Sam straightened up when he was done to take a look at his handy work.

All signs of his brother's injuries were out of sight. The black t-shirt and green overshirt had always looked good on him. It was almost as if his brother were taking a nap… As long as you didn't look at his discolored and curled hands, the tightened muscles of his cheeks and neck, the sunken eyes that looked as if someone had punched them back into his brain.

Dean was gone. Dead.

The warmth rolling down his face surprised him. He had to keep in control. It was all about control. There was too much to do to let it go. So when he reached up to brush the unwanted tears away, he was even more surprised when they didn't stop but instead came out faster. Through his tears he could almost pretend Dean really was only sleeping. That if he reached out and shook him, his brother would sit up and cuss him out for interrupting a great girl filled dream.

Sam's lip quivered, knowing this fantasy would never be. Dean was gone. He was alone – his worst nightmare a gruesome reality. "Dean…"

He pressed the back of his palms into his eyes, not wanting to see the illusion or worse yet the harsh truth set out in front of him.

"Dean…" An unexpected sob wracked through him and sent him shaking to his knees.

They had lost. Dean was gone. He was alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Letting Sam go by himself into that motel room with his brother's corpse cradled in his arms had been hard, but Bobby'd done it. The boy's mind was fractured, fragile. It was only too clear he wasn't thinking straight. There was no bringing Dean back. It was a total delusion to think otherwise. But who was he to tell anyone how to deal with their grief? He'd never done such a bang up job with his own, old and new.

But he wouldn't be stupid. He'd learned from the last time. If Sam wanted some privacy, he'd let him have it. If Sam wanted him to go get some wood for a coffin, he'd go get it. But he was also going to make damn sure the kid wasn't going anywhere while he was gone. He'd played that game before and lost. Popping the Impala's hood he removed the engine's distributor cap. Sometimes the oldest tricks worked best and though Sam was plenty smart, cars weren't one of his areas of expertise, so he wouldn't be able to work a way to start the Impala without it.

At least that's what he kept telling himself as he quietly removed the propping rod and closed the hood. Where the Winchesters were concerned, you could never be 100% sure of anything.

Bobby glanced at the motel room and saw that the door was still open. Taking a quick peek, he spotted Dean's wrapped body on the far bed and Sam just standing beside it as if he were elsewhere. Half tempted to go in and say something; Bobby shook his head and walked away instead.

Getting into his Camaro and stashing the distributor cap beneath the seat, he turned over the engine. Though he'd driven her long and hard, she sounded fit, in a lot better shape than he was. He was tired, hungry, and sleep would be a godsend, but none of that was his to have yet. He backed out of the parking space and kept glancing up into his rearview mirror for he knew not what until he'd left the lot.

Driving down the middle of town he spotted a small restaurant called El Rodeos. Needing directions and some grub, Bobby pulled in. A few minutes later he was back on the road heading toward US 24 and the town of Fairbury about six minutes away. The waitress had told him that there he'd have a choice of three different places that carried lumber. He left a large order for pickup for the return trip, only grabbing a quick egg and steak burrito to appease his stomach till then, wanting to be sure to take something fresh back for Sam as well, if he'd have it.

The Hundman Lumber Do-it Center was a big one story concrete building with a flashy red paint job on the upper half. Though it wasn't much after seven in the morning, the place was already open and doing a brisk bit of business – do-it-yourselfers, small contractors, even some corporate buyer types were putting in orders or doing pickups. The smell of sawdust and wood permeated everything. A slice of normal life. And here he stood amongst it, an outsider, here to purchase planks for an entirely different purpose than anything any of them might guess at.

Bobby squared his cap on his head, not happy with the gloomy thought. Yet it didn't make it any less true. He just wished it didn't make him feel so disjointed. His footsteps slapped against the concrete floor as he strolled down the tall wood filled aisles, a horizontal rather than vertical forest, until he found what he was looking for – pinewood slats.

It was definitely surreal as he calculated the number of slats he thought he'd need and then put in an order as well as stating the number of those pieces he wanted cut and to what specifications. Jerry, the potbellied man helping him, jabbered on about anything and everything from the moment Bobby walked up never once questioning the order. He was more than fine with that, preferring to give an encouraging nod or two to keep the man talking than having to whip up a story for him. Though over the years coming up with whatever was necessary had grown into a well practiced skill, he had no real desire to flaunt it at the moment. His only need right now was to get the stuff and get back to Sam.

A purchase of nails, rope, and a couple of other items later had him back outside. The longer pieces of wood got tied to the roof of the Camaro while the rest got tucked away in the trunk. A stop at a nearby gas station gave him the opportunity to fill up a plastic gallon jug, assured he'd have something else he might need if he was able to get Sam to see some sense. The boy's whole insistence that Dean needed to be buried made his stomach churn. As often as they'd been copied, possessed and who knew what else, he just couldn't believe Sam wouldn't want the peace of mind that knowing his brother couldn't be dredged up and used for who-knew-what would bring. With Dean's body in the condition it was in, there was nothing they would be able to do to bring him back. He wasn't sure even a demon could deal with his kind of damage. But even if it was in good enough shape, it truly wasn't an option. Nothing good ever came out of that sort of thing as they'd had more than one occasion to witness.

If he'd insisted on cremating the body back when Dean lost Sam, he could have possibly prevented a lot of what had come after.

Bobby shook his head, slowing down to turn onto the highway, knowing that wasn't quite right. If not for the choice Dean made, the Devil's Gate would probably still be open today, the innocent body count up in the thousands, with Azazel tromping around achieving his goals instead of being demon paste.

Yet no matter which way things might, could have, or did go, the Winchesters paid for every bit of it. There was no winning for them no matter the paths they chose. And though he was desperate to, he didn't know how to help them.

Stepping on the gas a little more than was prudent, Bobby headed back toward Forrest.

His order was waiting for him at El Rodeos and soon the car was filled with the scents of taquitos, roasted chicken, and friend plantains. Yet the closer he came to the motel, the more his appetite made a run for it.

Bobby parked in the same spot as before and let the engine idle rather than turn it off. The Impala was sitting right where he'd left it. The door to Sam's motel room was closed. With a slow thready exhale, he shut off the car. He grabbed a bag of food and got out.

Staring at the door, wishing it could give him a hint of what he might find inside, he gingerly made his way toward it, his body tense and senses primed as if about to go into battle.

As his hand touched the knob, he felt a moment of panicked uncertainty, the thought flashing through him that Sam might have locked the door. While not something that would actually keep him out for any amount of time, it would speak of other things. It'd be yet another hint given that he wasn't needed or wanted. His heart sped up in relief as he found out it wasn't locked after all.

In another moment he was about to wish it had been.

The smell hit him first, that all too familiar cloying stench of bubbling decomposition and drying blood. Then he saw the grisly sight on the bed. Bobby set the bag of food on the floor and quietly closed the door.

Dean was no longer wrapped up on the far bed, but was now visible and striped on the one closest to the door with Sam leaning over him attempting to wash away the raw reminders of what had happened to him. The younger Winchester's brow was furrowed in a pronounced T, every iota of concentration on the hand and washcloth methodically going over the dead grayish skin. The wastebasket full of water beside the bed was already tainted red.

Bobby looked away and rubbed his arms, the whole thing entirely too personal and painful to watch. His ears made him aware of water running in the bathroom, so he clamped onto the sound as something that needed to be checked out and quickly retreated there.

The comforter and sheets he'd procured for Sam back in the house in Indiana were a soggy disgusting mess of excrement, blood and gore in the bathtub. Something had plugged up the drain so the water had climbed almost to the edge. Bobby shut the water off and after shoving up his sleeves as far as they would go thrust his hands into the disgusting mess, trying to breathe only through his mouth.

He got the drain running again then wrung out and washed out the items there as well as he was able. Needing some fresh air and some trash bags, Bobby half stumbled from the bathroom. The air had grown stale and was clinging to him as if it'd grown thicker. How Sam could bear it was beyond him. But then again Sam might be beyond a lot of things right then.

Opening the door for fresh air was out of the question, so he went for the next available choice. He turned on the AC unit to full blast and set it to suck in outside air. Glancing over toward the bed, he noticed that Sam was still totally oblivious to his presence. He was currently absorbed in patching up Dean's wounds.

It would never work. The body was done for. It would be good for nothing ever again. "Sam?"

No twitch, no narrowing of the eyes in annoyance, nothing. It was as if he didn't exist. His sadness at the current state of things grew heavier. With a slump of weary shoulders, he opened the door just enough to get himself outside.

The fresh air was a shock. Inside that room all there was was regret, pain, failure, sorrow – death. Out here there were trees, birds, a blue cloud dotted sky – life. Two completely opposite worlds that still existed side by side and would until the end of time, no matter what any of them would prefer.

Bobby touched his face and found it wet. Here he was an old man and still couldn't control his own emotions. Lord he'd not had anything bite him so hard and so deep in so long. He wasn't made for this. Worse, he feared it wasn't over yet. He hoped to Heaven he was wrong, that he'd be able to do and say all the right things, but somehow, deep down, he was truly afraid he wouldn't manage it, that he'd be short of the mark. John Winchester should have been here handling this, curse him, but he'd bailed out early leaving the rest of them to deal with the things he'd started.

Though he'd not ever shared this with the boys, Bobby had long come to suspect that John knew a lot more about what was going on than he ever let anyone know. Especially his sons. In the end he had done more than any man could do for his children, but he'd been the one to put them in the line of fire in the first place. And while he'd found a way to escape Hell and the deal he'd made for Dean's life, there was no way his oldest would get that lucky.

Bobby sat down on the steps, his legs no longer steady. He took off his cap and worried at the rim, trying not to think. But thinking was his job, it was what he did. Right now though, he didn't like where any of his thoughts were leading.

Sliding the cap back over his thinning hair, he rocked back onto his feet. Fishing for his keys he opened his trunk for the plastic bags he kept there just in case. This wouldn't be the first bit of bad business he'd had to dispose of. Getting rid of evidence was also another skill his mama never would have thought or approved of.

Tracking back to the motel door, Bobby took a deep lungful of the life permeating everything out here to take it with him in there. He plastered a neutral expression on his face just on the off chance Sam noticed he was there. He needn't have worried. The boy was in a world all his own.

Moving past him and the cleanup work he was still performing on his brother, Bobby returned to the bathroom and shoved the wrung out ruined linens into the bags. Several trips got the heavy bags loaded into his trunk for disposal at a dumpster later.

Returning from the last trip, Bobby found that Sam had moved Dean over to the other bed and dumped the rest of the towels and the grimy shower curtain into the tub. He stood still waiting to see if the boy would notice him as he tidily moved and refolded the clothes he would put on his brother for his final resting place.

Nothing.

Dean's body looked better, aside from the fact it was still devoid of life. The leg, shoulder, and chest had been sewn and patched up, hiding the worst of the damage. But dead was dead. Dean's face was more relaxed than it could ever be in life, while his neck and jaw muscles caved in to the rigor mortis switching his features into an expression the boy could have never maintained while living and that made him look just wrong. Shaking his head, Bobby turned away from the sight to give Sam privacy for his chosen task, not one he envied him for in the least.

Bobby set about rinsing out the towels and cleaning up the shower curtain enough to hang it up again. When he was done, he silently moved back into the bedroom. Sam looked to be putting the finishing touches on Dean. Bobby slipped outside without saying anything. The bag of food he'd left for the boy earlier sat totally untouched. He realized he'd not taken the time to eat his own. Guess he had no appetite either.

Stretching to work out his tired muscles, Bobby opened the door to his own room and left it wide. Dragging himself back to his car, he untied the wood from the roof and grabbed hold of the other purchased supplies and made several trips to get them inside before coming last for his tools.

In less than thirty minutes it was done. Dean's coffin was complete -- a simple affair looking like something out of an old western. All it needed now was the body and getting it sealed. As he stared at his handy work he remembered Sam's comment about protecting the grave and so dug out a couple of books out of the trunk of the car and some markers. Setting a few Devil's Traps and other signs of protection on the thing should do it. If he couldn't get Sam to see sense, he might as well make the coffin as safe as he could and avoid the rush later. He was only too well acquainted with Winchester stubbornness.

Putting his things away, Bobby then trotted to the bathroom and took a shower. Grime and dried sweat poured down the drain, the hot water pummeling weary muscles. Clichéd as it was, he really was getting too old for this shit. He turned the water off. Things just never seemed to get any easier no matter how long he lived.

As he grabbed a towel and got out of the tub, he couldn't help but stare at the wall hiding those he couldn't see on the other side. He'd use the tarp he bought to disguise the coffin to move it to the other room with the kid's help, place Dean's body inside then take it from there to wherever Sam had in mind to bury him. That was assuming the kid actually had an idea.

Bobby sat down on the closed toilet and rubbed his face his exhaustion falling on him hard. This was so not what he wanted to deal with right now. For knowing all the things he did, he felt totally out of his depth on this. Sam needed to eat, to sleep, to start to cope. Hell, they both did. But how to go about it?

One step at a time, like his mother used to say. He grabbed the edge of the sink and pulled himself up. He then finished drying off and got dressed. Time to try to talk some sense into the kid. And pray, pray hard that he somehow could.


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8

"Sammy! Help me!"

Dean was chained against an obsidian wall with deep red rivulets dripping from a far off ceiling. His wrists and ankles were manacled and connected to the obsidian, keeping him spread eagled against the dark wall. His clothes had been torn to shreds, all manner of cuts crisscrossing his body. His eyes were wide with undisguised terror, his face contorted with pain. Humid heat and the stench of sulfur dripped from the air.

Sam reached out to grab his brother, to try to help him, desperate to make the look of utter fear leave his brother's face – wanting to do for Dean as his brother had done for him through years of horrid childhood dreams of darkness. But his hands passed right through him.

"_Sammy_!"

He tried to talk to tell Dean he was trying, that he would fix this, but no sound made it past his lips. Confused, yet not about to be daunted, he came close and attempted to let Dean know this by having their eyes meet instead. Dean's searching gaze raked right past him. His brother couldn't see him. What was going on?

Sam moved to Dean's right side willing his hands to grab onto one of the manacles. His fingers again passed clean through as if he didn't truly exist.

"No…" Dean's entire body shuddered, his gaze locked onto something off to the left. A moment later, water streaked through the air and splashed onto him. His brother screamed. Sam's hands flew to his ears, but the sound only echoed louder. Steam came off where the water touched his brother, his skin reddening and breaking out almost immediately with ghastly looking blisters.

"Who is it you keep calling out to, Winchester? Who is it you think would care? You have no friends here." Harsh, amused laughter followed the pronouncement as if an invisible audience were watching a show and following a teleprompter. "Surely you couldn't be calling for your little brother Samuel? The one you traded your life for? The one who has _no chance of getting you out of here_?"

Sam turned around to find the speaker, knowing he must be the source of his brother's torment, but saw nothing but black, red dripping walls. He sidled in front of Dean knowing nothing good would soon follow and tried to shield his brother's body with his own.

Water appeared out of thin air and came straight for him. Sam grimaced, trying to prepare himself for the onslaught only to feel nothing. The water passed right through him and hit its intended target behind him unimpeded in anyway.

Sam's silent scream of denial and impotence was echoed by one of utter anguish from his brother behind him.

––-

Sam jerked awake. He sat up, gasping, staring madly around him, only to slowly realize the walls weren't a shiny black, but rather a dirty beige and that the heavy rasping of his breathing had nothing to do with heat or sulfur infused air.

A twisted blanket lay around him, stinking of fear and sweat, though he hadn't the faintest idea how it got there. Rough worn carpet stung the palm of his hand. And death, the smell of death lingered all around him.

Unable to help himself, Sam turned his head to the left and the bed sitting beside him. Laying exactly as he'd left it was his brother's stiffening, rotting corpse.

Bile rose up his throat, choking him, the reminder of his total impotence slamming into him. The necklace around his neck felt cold as ice against his chest. A low moan passed his lips.

"Sam?"

His head snapped to the right at the familiar voice. Bobby was straightening up from a beat up old plastic chair set before the room's door, rubbing at his face as if he'd been asleep.

Sam's heart slammed into his chest having forgotten all about the man again. The blanket now made sense. The problem was when. When had Bobby come? Had he witnessed Sam's weakness earlier? But it didn't matter, it was done. All he could do was move forward, there were things still needing to be finished. Slamming a mask over his face and reeling everything else deep inside, he rose unsteadily to his feet. He nodded in Bobby's direction not trusting himself to speak.

"I would have moved you, but I didn't want to wake you. You needed the sleep."

The older man's voice was cautious, almost hesitant. Sam wondered why for a moment then decided he didn't actually care. He only waited, feeling tense, to see what Bobby would do next.

"It's all cold now, but I brought some food earlier. Think you might want to eat a little?"

The thought of food made his stomach churn. But food meant energy, energy meant strength, and strength meant he could do the things he needed to. "Fine."

Eating, sleeping, washing, functions he had to carry on with whether he wanted to or not, for Dean, for finding a way to get him back. All of it becoming ingrained behaviors running on auto pilot, necessities requiring little to no thought as long as they got done. He'd learned this before. Had failed for a while with Jess, though Dean had been there to pick up the pieces and get him finally moving again. But this time his brother was gone. There was only him. And if the Trickster forced one lesson into him in his three month long cruel game was how Sam _could_ continue to function and keep going without having to think.

The look of relief on Bobby's face as he grabbed a filled bag from close to the door was painful to witness. Sam didn't let it show. He could let nothing show.

Bobby handed the bag over and Sam sat on the edge of the second bed. He reached inside blindly, not caring what was in there, unwrapped the first thing he came across and ate it. Tasted like cardboard. It didn't matter what it was, they all tasted exactly the same. He shoved in one after the other until he thought he'd eaten enough to fill his body's needs then stopped.

There was a guarded expression on Bobby's face Sam couldn't rightly read as the older man handed over an open bottle of water. Sam chugged it down, not tasting or enjoying it anymore than all the rest.

"I know you mentioned wanting to bury Dean, but…"

Sam shot up to his feet and nailed Bobby with a glare daring him to continue. Their gazes met only for a second before Bobby was looking away, his face paling. He cleared his throat.

"The, the coffin is ready, just like you asked." He fiddled with the brim of his faded cap. "I'm going to need your help with it though."

"Fine." Sam continued to stand there just staring at him, coiled tight. Bobby did not believe. Bobby didn't think he could do it. Bobby doubted Sam could bring his brother back. But he would. _He would_!

The older hunter nodded not looking at him, opened the motel room door and hurried outside. Sam blinked at the bright light which poured in, as if it were somehow alien.

Slivers of memories followed him as he stepped outside. He saw the Impala with its hood up, Dean and their father ducking beneath it talking cars as Sam sat on the footsteps by the door reading. Dean smacking him on the arm with a rolled up comic book and laughing like a loon as Sam gave chase to get him back. Their father setting up impromptu obstacle courses in the parking lot and into the trees nearby, the hated shiny timer cradled in his hand. Gone. All of it, gone. And once he was dead that would be the end of it.

"Sam?"

He blinked the memories away realizing he'd faded again. He said nothing as he rejoined Bobby at the open door to number eight.

Stepping into the room he felt his chest constrict as if someone had put it in a vise. The open, empty coffin sitting on the bed jumped at him, reality once more slapping him in the face. Dean was dead. And soon he would be sealed up inside this thing to wait.

The runes and symbols meticulously scrawled on the lid and sides made him think of a Pharaoh's sarcophagus. An object serving to preserve the emptied body as it would in time become the home to the deceased person's Ka and Ba in the afterlife. Without it they would be condemned to wander the earth without a vessel forever. A vessel – something to house them, to give them physical form on this plane of existence. Something his brother would dearly need as well.

Bobby set the lid loosely on top of the coffin then covered the whole with a green tarp. Sam blinked again and lightly shook his head trying to clear his head. He moved forward to grab the end of the covered coffin as Bobby stepped over to grab the top. Even with the tarp, the weight wasn't much. He could have carried it on his own if it hadn't been so awkward to hold.

Yet when they left the room and the closer they came to where Dean lay, the harder it got to carry.

They set the coffin down next to the far bed. Bobby squeezed around it to go close the motel room's door then removed the tarp and lid. Sam kept his gaze glued to the floor not wanting or able to look at Dean's body on the bed. Everything depended on him. On how well he'd patched the body, on how well the coffin would keep it safe, on what information he could find, and then on how well he was able to carry out whatever answers he found to bring his brother back. He had to do it. He had no _choice_. But a little voice screamed with mad glee somewhere deep down and asked him what was the point of even trying. He would not succeed at this just as he hadn't with everything else he ever set out to do on his own.

Sam clenched his jaw until the muscle jumped. He would not _fail_ in this. He would not!

"Okay, you ready to do this?"

Sam glanced up and saw that Bobby was at the head of the bed again, his hands already tucked beneath Dean's shoulders and only waiting for him. Nodding, Sam moved into position and grabbed hold of Dean's legs. Rigor mortis had progressed and when they lifted, Dean's body moved like a plank of wood, no more flexible than the coffin they'd brought in a minute or two before. With great care they nestled his brother's body inside the box. Sam straightened the cuff of Dean's jeans still not able to look at the rest of him. He helped Bobby put the lid on.

"Would you like to do this or should I?"

Sam looked up at him not knowing what he was talking about until he saw the small hammer and handful of nails Bobby pulled out from a back pocket. Shaking his head, he quickly stepped back. As each nail was pounded in, it was like an explosion going off inside Sam's head. He flinched at each blow, his heart constricting with pain every time the hammer fell.

Before long, he leaned back against the dresser, his legs no longer wanting to hold him up. He tried hard to rally together once Bobby finished and reached out for the tarp to cover up the coffin again.

"I'm assuming you have somewhere in mind to take him?" Bobby's voice was low and somber.

"Yes." He couldn't say anymore. Didn't know how to at the moment.

"It's just a little past three." Bobby shyly glanced over at him. "So how about we get you some clothes and you get yourself cleaned up and then we can go and take care of things. We'll have plenty of daylight left and if not, it won't really matter. Things will still get done."

Sam stared at the floor, the bed, the walls, anywhere but the tarp and the things hidden beneath it.

"You need to do this, Sam. If we're going to be out and about, you don't have a choice." Bobby was standing beside him and Sam didn't remember him getting there. "We'll do what needs to be done, but we don't want to attract attention. And honestly, the way you look and smell right now would do plenty of that."

Sam looked down at himself, not knowing what Bobby was talking about, but then he did. The borrowed sweater was stained. Crusted bits stood out here and there and dark spots where everywhere on it. His jeans were dark at his thighs, knees, legs almost like he'd tried to dye them. They felt stiff and crackled as he moved. How had he not noticed this before?

But as for a stench, there wasn't one. There was only what he'd been smelling since the moment Lilith left him to clean up the mess she'd made of his life – death. And surely the whole world smelled that way and would until the day he died. "Fine."

"Great." Bobby put his hand lightly on his shoulder.

Sam jerked back, not realizing he was going to do it until it was done. Comfort was weakness. He could not bear weakness. Weakness would not get the job done. He caught Bobby staring at him open mouthed out of the corner of his eye, his hand still in the air. He brought it down slowly.

"You should, you should probably use the shower in my room."

Sam nodded, avoiding eye contact, and made for the pile of duffels. He grabbed the first clean clothes he came across and his kit then headed for the door. Bobby held out the room key and Sam took it making sure not to touch him. "Thanks…"

It was probably one of the fastest showers of his life. He could never recall anything about it aside from the vague feeling he'd done it and got dressed. A lot of things would probably feel that way over the intervening weeks. He was looking forward to it.

He stopped as he was opening the door out of the room when he spotted his reflection on the wall mirror. Damp hair, shaved face, clean clothes, nothing to indicate to anyone that he was a screwed up mess inside or that the person who meant everything, who'd traded away his life for him, was dead. He just looked like a happy, well adjusted twenty-five year old, no hint that his birthday two weeks before had been a signpost of his brother's impending death at the claws of a hellhound and its demon owner.

Sam's nails bit the inside of his palm in his curled fist the pain allowing him to drag his gaze away from his reflection. He didn't want to look at himself again – ever – not till he brought Dean back to where he belonged.

Only once he got to the closed door to number seven did he force his fingers free of their curled state. The rushing blood flow to his hand made it prickle with added pain. He opened the door. He found Bobby standing at the foot of the covered coffin as if he'd been there guarding it for him. Sam's eye twitched with a momentary burst of guilt. "I'm done."

Bobby turned towards him, not quite meeting his gaze. His eyes looked far from clear. "Hey."

Sam's conscience twinged again, reminding him he wasn't the only having to deal with all this. There just wasn't much he could do about it.

"If you'll tell me where we're taking him, I can drive us there, once we strap this down." Bobby was sounding cautious again.

It irritated him, though he couldn't have said why. "No. I'll drive." Dean would want his 'baby' to be the one to transport his body to its resting place. Nothing else would do.

Bobby sighed. Sam felt his irritation rise up a notch. Was this how Dean felt when he did it?

"Let's get moving then." The older man squatted down at the head of the covered coffin and waited for him to do the same at the other end. As one, they lifted the now much heavier burden and guided it towards the door. Within minutes, they had the coffin strapped to the Impala's protesting roof. Until they got it to its destination, they'd have to climb in and out of the car through the open windows.

Sam slipped inside, feeling uncomfortable, knowing that from then on every time he rode in this car he would be in the driver's seat. He could feel Dean's presence inside her, almost balking at his position, a ghost or strange resonating remnant from the amount of time his brother had resided in the car. It wouldn't have surprised him at all to learn that half their lives or more had been spent inside her.

"Hold up a second before you start her. I need to fix something real quick."

Sam glanced outside at Bobby in confusion. The hunter rushed over to his Camaro and pulled something out from beneath the front seat. A moment later, he had the Impala's hood up and quickly did something there Sam couldn't see. Had he disabled the car again? Did he really think Sam would just take off on him?

Seconds after he realized it was probably true. As Bobby slipped inside avoiding his gaze, he knew it for certain. Problem was Sam couldn't actually blame him. Though it was terribly unfair, especially after all Bobby had done for them and come to mean to them, Sam knew he kept forgetting the man even existed. He wasn't sure quite what that said about him one way or another. He supposed it was just one more item on the list of things he'd failed at.

His mouth felt dry. You'd think he'd be used to the feeling by now. He turned the key in the ignition a little harder than he had to.

Letting the wind pouring in from the open windows fill in the silence as neither of them said anything, Sam backed out the car and left Forrest. Taking US 24, he then cut up I-55. Forty minutes or so later he turned on Rowe road and followed it westward until it turned into E 2100 N. He pulled the Impala to the side as they came up on a gated side road. More memories gathered round of many other stops at this very gate and each one of them taking turns to pick the lock to get them through it even as he did it this time.

The road they followed now would only get them so far, but it would be close enough to where Sam wanted them to go. There was a place, a special place, one he and Dean had discovered in their many forays through this forest. And it was there he wanted Dean buried. A place his brother would be safe till he could come back for him.

Sam parked the Impala as the road shrank to nothing and turned the engine off. Bobby got out without a word for which Sam was grateful. He untied the coffin while Sam fished out a couple of shovels from the trunk. Keeping the tarp over the casket just in case, they piled the shovels on top of it as well as the rope and a couple of gas lamps then set out.

Sam led the way through the trees more flashes of memory flitting past as they moved along. Their father teaching them how to set traps, tracking each other through the trees, learning to tell direction without a compass. His brother had always lightened the mood or encouraged him when he lagged behind, or drove him crazy just so he'd keep going. He doubted if Dean even remembered this place at all, the whole damn planet his playground, but Sam would never forget it.

A short hike through the trees finally brought them to their destination. Previously covered in shadows which grew slowly deeper, they stepped out into a small clearing filled with tall prairie grass. Odd as the sight was in the middle of a forest, it had fascinated Sam for reasons which were hard to name. It was as if a piece of the larger prairie lands to the southeast had snuck away and come to rest here out of sight. Perhaps something had once stood here and the forest been cleared but it had eventually reclaimed everything except for this one small piece nestled in its heart. In the end, Sam didn't know and didn't care. All he knew was that it would be a perfect resting place for Dean and so it would be.

Sam moved to set the coffin down and Bobby followed suit. He grabbed one of the shovels and stepped into the middle of the clearing and got to work. The prairie grass gave him some trouble at first, but cutting into the roots in a square and loosening the soil beneath let him pull it up in chunks he could set to the side. The dirt below proved easier than a lot of graves they'd had to deal with before. It meant it would be that much easier to get Dean out when the time came.

Bobby joined him but neither spoke only worked. The hunter lit the lamps as the light left the sky as if the heavens wished to help them hide what they were about. About four feet down, Sam slowed, wiping the sweat from his forehead. This should be deep enough. It would keep any animals from trying to dig his brother's body out and yet not be prohibitingly deep if Sam wasn't around for some reason when Dean came back. Not knowing what means he would end up using to bring Dean out of Hell, he needed to keep his options as open as possible. Though his brother tended to take such things literally, no one was actually buried six feet deep anyway. The reference had come from a fictional account in _A Journal of the Plague Year_ by Daniel Defoe back in the 18th century and had for some reason caught on and become part of the popular vernacular ever since.

_Even now you're just one giant encyclopedia of weird and useless information, aren't you, Sammy?_

Sam looked up, his gaze shooting straight to the covered coffin, his arms and back breaking out in gooseflesh. He wasn't sure if his subconscious deciding to let his brother berate him in his head was something he could handle.

He threw the shovel out and climbed out of the hole. Schooling his face, he turned around and crouched down to give Bobby a hand up. Though the older man looked momentarily surprised, he took Sam's hand in a fierce grip and let him help him out.

Taking the rope, the two of them cradled the box between them and then splayed out the line to lower the coffin down into the hole. The rough weave chaffed and pulled at Sam's hands, but it didn't matter. All he could do was stare at his brother's coffin as it went into the pit. As soon as it was down there and they covered it up, it would be as if Dean had never existed.

The box came to rest at the bottom and Bobby started pulling the rope on through. Sam didn't really notice. His gaze was glued to the coffin, his breath struggling to come in and out of his lungs, his brother's physical body about to be taken from him until he somehow managed to bring him back from Hell. Somehow…

Or he could just decide to join him now. To let himself fall down into the darkness and be buried with his brother forever. All it would take would be for him to just lean slowly forward and gravity would make the decision for him. No guilt, no impotence, no pain, no nothing.

He swayed where he stood.

"Sam!"

Strong hands grabbed him from the side. Sam's head snapped up, his gaze tearing away from Dean's resting place. As he spotted Bobby's deeply worried face, he realized what he'd been doing, what he'd almost allowed himself to do. Heat rushed up his neck and face and he turned away, half stumbling away from the grave, Bobby still holding onto him.

He was a coward. A stupid selfish _coward_! His legs turned to rubber, shame rolling through him like a heat wave. If not for Bobby's hold on him he would have fallen on his face. He should have let him! He deserved worse. Was this how he thought he would repay his brother for his sacrifice? By not even _trying_ to get him back? By just giving in and taking the easy way out? What the heck was the matter with him? Dean deserved more than this!

"Sam, it's okay. Just sit. I'll take care of this."

He could do or say nothing as Bobby moved off back toward the grave, his self loathing a physical pain in his chest barely letting him breathe.

As he heard each shovelful of dirt fall on the wood below, Sam stared off into the trees pushing back against the temptation to run over there and dive head first into the dark. Each time, he shoved his fears and doubts farther inside, trying to bury them just as the earth would inter his brother. He had only one goal now, one reason to live, and if God was merciful and gave him the opportunity, perhaps two.

His life was not his own.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Bobby pulled the rope from beneath the coffin coiling it about his arm as he went. He glanced across the open grave at Sam and froze. The boy was staring into the hole, the lamplight making his face look ashen like the dead. He swayed where he stood and seemed unaware of it. He was too close to the edge. He looked like he was about to fall.

Heart lurching in his chest, panic infusing him with a jolt of adrenaline, Bobby dropped the half coiled rope and leapt the open hole to Sam's side, grabbing him as he teetered forward.

"Sam!"

He held onto the boy, scared to his roots. Losing one of them was more than he could take, what was he supposed to do if he lost both of them? Sam's head jerked up, shock and confusion marring his features. Color suddenly flooded back into his face and he turned away from him, and it was all Bobby could do to keep his hold on him as he tried to stumble away. He held on harder as Sam's legs seemed to give way beneath him and he tried to collapse to the ground.

Bobby gently helped him sit on the tall grass. The boy had pushed himself too far, tried to do too much.

"Sam, it's okay. Just sit. I'll take care of this." He reluctantly let go and left him. Throwing occasional glances in his direction, Bobby coiled up the rest of the rope and then picked up one of the shovels.

As the hole began to fill, he watched Sam just stare off into the trees, the darkness growing deeper outside the circle of the two lamps' light. Bobby felt a chill as he got the disturbing feeling that by burying one brother the other was withdrawing inside into a tomb of his own making.

He was breathing hard by the time he was finished, sweat trickling down his back and sides. He swept the cap off his head and ran his forearm across his forehead. Shoving the grass squares back on the exposed dirt took only a few more minutes. Then it was done.

In a few months the grass would reclaim all the space and no one would ever know someone was buried here. Damn… He glanced at Sam. Something more was called for. And it had never occurred to him until that moment.

"Hey, I need to do one last thing. Will you be okay here alone for a minute?" Bobby set the coil of rope and the shovels to either side of him, hemming him in.

Sam looked up at him a totally blank expression on his face.

It would have to do. "Be right back."

Grabbing one of the two lanterns, Bobby hurried back toward the road. He was sure he'd seen what he needed on the way in, but couldn't remember exactly where. He got lucky and spotted the fallen chunks of wood again. Looked like at some point there had been some wooden fencing on part of the path but it had fallen into disrepair. Grateful it was there, he quickly snapped off a couple of pieces and hurried back to where he'd left Sam.

The youngest Winchester was standing again staring hard at the patch of repacked ground but had otherwise not moved from where he left him. Bobby was more relieved to see it than he was willing to admit.

Reaching into his back pocket, he brought out a leftover nail from his earlier efforts. Using one of the shovels as a hammer, he quickly made a makeshift cross. When he was done, he drove it into the ground to mark Dean's body's resting place.

He tried to find a word or two to say, to give some kind of good bye, but came up empty. Dean wasn't here. Whatever he said would never reach him – his soul the plaything of demons until the end of time. His throat closed up making the useless exercise doubly impossible. With a slight bow of his head, he turned away from the grave.

Sam still hadn't moved.

Bobby cleared his throat. "Gue-guess we should be heading back now. Unless you need a few minutes?"

The boy said nothing, only bent down to pick up the second shovel, lamp and rope. After a moment, he turned away and headed off. Bobby sent one final glance in the direction of the grave then hurried after him.

The ride back to the motel was even more somber than the ride out though he hadn't thought it possible. The idea of even trying to pretend to start up a conversation made him cringe.

Sam parked the car and turned the engine off but made no move to get out. Bobby could make little to nothing about his expression despite the light shinning into the car from the lighting beside the motel doors.

"Something on your mind?" The question sounded totally lame, but he'd not been able to come up with anything else.

He saw Sam's hands tighten on the steering wheel though he still said nothing. He was staring out dead ahead. Bobby had no way to tell if the kid even knew he was there. Being made to feel as if he didn't exist was a new experience for him. He didn't much like it, but then again…

"How about we get some shuteye? Been a long couple of days." He'd hoped to bring this up later, but now seemed as good a time as any. "In the morning, I'd like you to come to South Dakota with me, Sam. Stay a few days. Take a little time to figure out things." Keep him close so Bobby could make sure he was okay.

"Now."

That he got an answer surprised him. That it was semi positive even more so. He'd expected to encounter some resistance, but not this. "It's a twelve hour plus drive, son. We're both exhausted. We should get some rest first."

"I'll meet you there." His curled white knuckled hands twisted back and forth on the steering wheel like he was revving a motorcycle engine. Now that the idea had been planted, he was obviously eager to be away.

"Sam, no! Dammit, boy, be reasonable. You can't just take off right this minute!" Before he could catch himself, Bobby whipped off his cap and smacked the dashboard in frustration. "Your stuff is in the room. Were you planning on leaving it behind? And what about Dean's things? You want to ditch those too? What's the hurry?"

Sam blinked, blinked again, then half turned to look at him. "Research."

Bobby stared at him, flabbergasted. He should have known Sam's previous seeming cooperation had nothing to do with anything good. Over the years that he'd studied and gathered information, never, not once, had he come across anything that would help bring someone back from the pit or otherwise. Anything even close only brought back a thing, something that resembled the person lost but twisted and evil or with a price tag too high to pay. He also knew looking at Sam, with a hard intensity bordering on anguish, that the boy would never just take his word for it. "Give me ten minutes. Just ten minutes, okay? Let me check us out, get our stuff, lock up my car and whatnot and then we can be out of here. We can drive in shifts. _All right_?"

Those large hands moved back and forth on the wheel as if marking time. "Fine."

Bobby opened the passenger door and jumped out of the car. There was no telling if Sam would give him the ten minutes or not and it wasn't a lot of time in the first place. As he rushed into his room to grab the few things he'd brought inside, his ears were primed for the sound of a starting engine. His heart beat faster than it had any right to, but he just couldn't shake the feeling it would mean nothing to the boy to leave him behind. Damn every one of the Winchesters!

He dumped his stuff in the Camaro and locked her up tight, his mind already thumbing through the short list of people whom he could rely on to pick her up and get her back to him in one piece. He opened and propped the door to number seven then bopped over to the motel's office to pay for the rooms and leave his car keys. No way would he trust Sam to wait on him if he dumped the duffels into the Impala first before turning in the room keys. That the kid felt he had more important things to do than wait on some old guy was way of an understatement.

The moment he opened the back door to the Impala, panting and sweating from all the rapid exertion, the engine turned over. The wheels were already starting to roll as Bobby ditched the duffels then threw himself in a hurry into the front seat. As he tried hard to catch his breath, he couldn't help notice Sam never even once glanced his way.

They followed US 24 to 51, then cut through several interstates until they were cruising on I-80. They'd just crossed the Iowa line a couple of hours later when Bobby finally couldn't stomach the utter silence anymore.

"Sam, let me drive for a while. Give yourself a chance to get some rest."

The younger Winchester said nothing, did nothing, but Bobby could have sworn they picked up a little speed.

"Look, Sam, you've lost your brother. You're in pain. It's going to take time to deal with that. Let me-" Bobby swallowed the rest of his words as a feral glare was aimed in his direction. It was so much like John Winchester's when he was at his most stubborn and angry it was like Déjà vu.

Sam reached over and snapped the radio on, slamming the tape sitting partially out of the player. "Driver picks the music, _SHOTGUN SHUTS HIS CAKE HOLE_." He twisted the volume on the radio up until it pounded the inside of the car and made any kind of conversation impossible.

Bobby stared at the raw supernova that moments before had been a withdrawn and utterly blank Sam Winchester. When the boy had been killed a year ago, Dean's grief and contained fury could be seen bubbling right under the surface, radiating from him in wave after wave. It had been an active volcano of which Bobby had ignored the warning signs and therefore had it explode on him at least once. But Sam, Sam was different. He looked to be more of an atomic mine field than a raging storm of nature – appearing perfectly benign and harmless until a misstep blew half your body away. How was he supposed to deal with that? Even as he watched, Sam's features became the same schooled mask they'd been before, as if nothing ever happened.

Knowing when he was licked, at least for the moment, Bobby decided to do what Sam would not and rest. The booming thud of the heavy metal music turned into exploding mines in a body littered field as he fell into an uneasy sleep.

A passing flash of headlights brought him awake hours later. His head was thumping, and his neck stiff, but the music was only a faint whisper in the enclosed space rather than the-be-all it had been previously. A passing sign told him they were on I-29, forty miles out of Sioux Falls. They were already in South Dakota and four to five hours away from home. Either the kid was blasting at way too many miles an hour or Bobby had been more exhausted than he'd realized. The light sprinkling of sunshine coming in from the East said it might even be a little of both.

Bones creaking and popping as he straightened up in the bench seat, Bobby risked a glance in Sam's direction.

The boy looked tired, his eyes drooping, cheeks sunken, his color pale. Not good.

After a moment, Bobby caught him sending a cautious glance in his direction before riveting his attention back out the front windshield again. "Hey…"

"Sam." Bobby rubbed at the back of his neck with his hand, not sure he was ready to try to walk the mine field again, especially just after waking up.

"Got breakfast." Sam patted a filled bag on the seat beside him, never taking his eyes off the road. "Coffee."

Bobby couldn't help the touch of a smile that lighted for a moment on his lips, his stomach making noises of appreciation. More than the existence of the food itself, he was relieved by the fact Sam had been himself enough to get it in the first place.

He was even more pacified when he spotted several crushed wrappers beside the bag. Sam had taken some of what he'd bought for himself. Meant there was hope.

"Thanks." Just the aroma from the still warm coffee made him feel several degrees better than before. Three quarters of a cup later and two breakfast sandwiches inside him, he was feeling half way alive again.

"Sorry…about before…"

Bobby looked up and saw a troubled expression on the boy's face, his cheeks brushed with a little color. This was so much more of a familiar Sam than the blank mask or supernova, he hesitated doing or saying anything, not wanting to somehow inadvertently make him withdraw again. He finally decided on a shrug. "No problem."

The following relieved sigh made Bobby's heart feel even lighter.

"Would you mind driving for a while?"

"That's what I'm here for." Maybe, just maybe everything might turn out okay.


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10

_Why haven't you saved me? Saaaaammmm!_

A gasp tore from his throat and Sam jerked forward hardbound books falling from his lap onto the floor. His laptop sat blinking with a screen full of already clicked links on the small table to the side. Dust motes floated in the sunlight filtering through half open shades.

The worn and smoke stained wallpaper, the pervasive smell of paper, mold, and incense, the lumpy couch he was sitting on, all bits of reality insisting he wasn't in another dimension watching his brother suffer in Hell.

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his thighs with hands over his face, and tried to put the latest bloody imagery of his brother's never ending torture behind him.

He'd been here three days. Three days of research and dead ends and no hope and Dean rotting in the ground. Of his being tortured in Hell. He was running out of options. He could feel the walls of failure closing in with every breath.

His hands moved from his face to his hair as he tried to squeeze his head between them. There had to be something!

"Sam? You all right?"

He froze at the sound of Bobby's voice. He sucked his feelings in, pushing them down, hurriedly schooling his features. Taking a deep shuddering breath, he let go of his head and slowly sat back up. "Fine, Bobby. I'm fine."

Every day it got harder and harder to look at him. As far as Bobby was concerned, Sam had already failed. He could hear it in his voice, see it in his face. There were times when Sam couldn't stand to be around him anymore because of it. Bobby's certainty that there was nothing that could be done was a twisting knife in his gut – and it _hurt_.

"Listen, kid, we need to talk."

Sam glanced over just enough to make out that Bobby was in the room's doorway making no move to come in. This suited him fine. He bent down to start picking up the discarded books. "Not now."

"Then when?" Bobby didn't leave the question hanging out long enough for him to try to respond. They both knew the answer already. "Sam, what you're doing… It isn't healthy. Sure, you eat, you drink, you make the motions of living, but you only sleep when your body shuts down in exhaustion and only after spending every waking minute doing research. It's wrong…"

Sam heard him take a step into the room and he tensed, gripping a fifteenth century tome until his fingers left an impression in the worn leather. Yes, it was Bobby, yes, he only had his best interest at heart, but still…

"I know you're hurting. Hell, I'm hurting and I've been through this twice! Not just Dean's death, but yours when you died."

Sam flinched, his murder being when all this trouble started. That he'd died had been his own fault. He'd been careless. Stupid. Compassion had only left his enemy alive so he could get another shot at him, and Jake had taken advantage of it with a vengeance. Dean and Bobby arrived just in time to have him die in his brother's arms. And it was this that drove Dean to make the insane deal with the crossroad's demon. Something his brother had known better than anyone not to do.

"Look, there's nothing I wouldn't do for either of you. You two are family." He heard Bobby's voice crack. "But you have to _let_ me, Sam. Can't you see that?"

Sam looked away, hiding his face, feeling his mask slipping. He knew how Bobby felt, he'd made it more than clear with actions, if not words, many times. But Bobby didn't believe. He didn't believe Sam could save Dean. All he wanted was to help Sam let his brother go instead of save him. And that he _could not_ do.

"Dammit, boy! Let me help you!"

He turned his composed face toward the one man he could count on but who also had no hope. And if he held no hope, there was no way Bobby could do anything to help him. Nothing at all.

The answer must have shown on his face because as he watched he saw despair stain Bobby's expression.

"Don't become your father, Sam. You deserve more."

He almost laughed out loud. That was exactly who he needed to become. Not Dean, not Dean at all, but his father! No one had ever more doggedly pursued a quest than John Winchester. When there'd been no hope, no clues, his father had nevertheless sought out every last hint or rumor and though it took him over twenty years, he had eventually succeeded! Not only had he found out what had killed his wife, but he'd crawled out of Hell itself to help his sons take it down.

He'd crawled out of Hell itself…

It took all of Sam's will to keep still and not jump out of his seat with a jolt of excitement. The sentence kept repeating itself in his mind over and over and over. He filled up with the possibility, the possibility of an actual answer. One that wouldn't require his selling his soul, or murdering innocents, or getting back something that wasn't really Dean. It wasn't ideal, not what he truly wished for, but it would be enough. It would be _enough_.

"I'll think about it." With fake nonchalance Sam opened one of the books at random and pretended to read. He'd gone through about two pages when he heard Bobby finally sigh and walk away.

Even so, he still gave it another five minutes before he put the book aside. What he was planning had no guarantees and despite the fact they'd fixed the railroad ties after the first incident, he was pretty sure Bobby would never agree to do this. Either someone from the outside or one of the escaped denizens of Hell had broken the giant pentagram when the demons were freed the last time. If it had been done from the inside they could do it again. Despite how he felt about the brothers, Bobby wouldn't take the risk. But Sam would.

He was on his own.

Problem was he wasn't sure of the location of the Colt. And if he asked, Bobby would know instantly why and probably destroy it. Sam would do this, but he would do it right, with Bobby none the wiser.

He grabbed his laptop and did some research for a while on a different subject. Then he pretended to read as he bid time to go by faster, and made plans until he could be free to act.

Bobby brought him dinner as he had every day and Sam ate it woodenly like all the times before. He totally avoided looking at the older man, not willing to take the risk he might somehow give himself away.

He heard Bobby hesitate at the doorway, but he said nothing then went on his way. Sam was grateful.

After night fell and the house turned silent, he finally acted. Practicing every ounce of stealth he'd developed over the years, he roamed from room to room searching. Though the gun itself was useless, he knew there was no way Bobby would have gotten rid of it. The trouble was finding where he'd eventually put it away.

He found the place he was looking for in one of the rooms off the basement. Sam recognized the bullet creating equipment and the forging dies and steel blanks for different gun parts as well as the small forge for making them in the back. Bits of metal or works in progress lay across several shelves. Some looked like they'd not been touched in some time. A work desk sat to the right. Sam opened several of the drawers looking for what he hoped to find. Gun schematics and notes on the top drawer all related to the new version of the Colt Bobby had made. It had been one of the few things Lilith feared, but they'd lost it thanks to Bella. In the end it hadn't helped her get out of her own deal for her soul. And there hadn't been enough time for Bobby to make another before Dean's time had run out. With Ruby being sent to who knew where by Lilith, making another functional gun wouldn't be happening anytime soon anyway.

In the drawer beneath he found what he was looking for. In a neatly labeled box were gathered the disassembled parts of the original Colt. Sam took them out one by one. Using Bobby's notes for reference and his own experience with guns, he quickly rebuilt the Colt by groups – frame, cylinder, extractor, crane, barrel, sight, and trigger. More calibration would be needed for it to shoot straight, but for what he needed the gun for, it didn't matter. As a killing weapon for demons the Colt had become useless as soon as all the bullets were used up. With no specs on their actual stats, this being a one-of-a-kind specimen, they wouldn't be able to recreate them. That had been the main reason Bobby had taken it apart and tried to reconstruct one from scratch so they would have what was needed to make proper bullets and not just end up with a handful.

Checking the schematics one last time, Sam was surprised to note that not every detail of the recreation had been marked. On the last page was a quickly written footnote saying 'Special – Ruby' and nothing else to give a hint on what it actually entailed. Looked like she had done what was needed but had shared none of the information, keeping the secret totally for herself. It sounded very much like her.

Sam stared down at the key his hopes were at the moment entirely resting upon. Worn wooden grip, long cylinder, super long barrel, etched and made not only to extinguish the supernatural, but to be a key – a key to a gateway to Hell. And it carried one message for anyone who held it – Non timebo mala – I will fear no evil. He only wished such a phrase was one he could quote as being true – but he had feared evil all his life. And the more he'd learned of it, the more he'd come to fear it. In many ways he even feared himself – for the blood of a demon sang in his veins. He'd seen what that very blood could do to those who gave in to it. That he might succumb had been one of Dean's greatest fears. And as he'd found out eventually, also his father's.

Reverently, he tucked the gun away at the small of his back, where it could sit with Ruby's demon killing dagger.

Grabbing some filings from a metal waste bin, Sam put them in the box previously occupied by the pieces of the Colt and set the box back where he'd found it. Putting all the papers back as well, he left the room exactly as it had been before he arrived.

Now it was time to go.

Sam made his way outside the house. Lifting the hood of the Impala, he wasn't surprised when he spotted that the distributor cap was missing. Bobby was nothing if not consistent. Time for another hunt. Luckily Sam knew Bobby figured he had little to no idea about cars and very much doubted Sam could tell a distributor cap from an intake manifold. That was where research and the internet came in handy. He didn't have to know. He could look it up. And assuming Bobby wouldn't want to inconvenience himself or Sam too much, he was pretty positive he would have hid the needed item nearby for easy access. Within minutes he found it tucked away behind a paint can on some shelves leaning against the house.

Reconnecting the distributor cap, he then put the Impala in neutral. Grabbing the door frame and gritting his teeth, he pushed the car down the dirt and rock strewn road until he felt confident he was far enough away from the house Bobby wouldn't hear it. He got inside the car, turned the engine over and left.

Cutting through town Sam spotted a Catholic church on the right. The main building flared out in all four directions. An open second floor of columns rose from the center, topped with an even smaller covered third story with a domed roof in green tile, a final spire at the top housing the bell. The closer he came to it, the more he slowed down. He prayed every day. He had always prayed. Pastor Jim had taught him how to gain strength from prayer, how he could use it to help see light in the darkness. Sam didn't know if God was real or only an imagined crutch people used to get by the ugliness of reality, but he wanted Him to be out there more than anything. He wanted, needed, God to be real – for his prayers to be heard despite the fact he had been tainted.

What he was about to attempt that night might be considered by some to be an act against the Lord and everything He stood for and still Sam would do it. He knew that if he were to be measured that instant, he would be found wanting. But he needed this to succeed, he needed it so badly. And anything he could do to hedge his bets or any allies he could make, even if powered only by faith, had to be done.

Sam turned off the Impala's lights as well as the engine and let the car coast silently into the church's parking lot.

The night was still as he got out of the car, almost as if waiting. Sam rose quickly up the old worn steps and tried one of the double wooden doors. Not too surprising with the time of night, he found it locked. It would hinder him only for a minute. He sent a quick prayer for forgiveness before sticking the first lock pick into the door.

The stillness he'd sensed before deepened once he stepped inside. The scent of wood oil and burned wicks and melted wax drifted gently in the air around him. A few of the votive candles were still flickering in the stands set up for them here and there. A red runner led the way up the central isle to the altar, a wood and bronze image of Jesus on the cross hanging in the back.

Sam knelt at the first pew and crossed himself before proceeding down the aisle. He could feel his heart and pulse increase the farther he went. He wanted to be as close as he could be to God before sending his prayer. This was His temple, His place. And with any luck He might just hear him from here.

His expression flittering between hope, shame, fear, love, and doubt, Sam knelt again as close to the altar as he could. Looking up at the figure of Jesus, his mask completely gone for the first time in days, Sam exposed the full measure of his pain to the only being he felt he could never hide it from.

Silently, he hung his head, and clasping his hands before him, prayed. He prayed to do the right thing, he prayed to God to help him save his brother, he prayed for Him to let him carry out His will, to infuse him with grace, and if He so willed it, to expunge the demon blood from him. But most of all he prayed for God to have mercy on his brother's soul and help him out of the pit.

Sam prayed and prayed until his clasped hands became numb and he could no longer feel his legs. He emptied his hopes, his fears, his soul into his prayers until there was nothing more. Then he stumbled back to his feet, crossed himself one last time, and left.

And still there was that sense of waiting hanging in the air. As if things were poised to be decided.

He quickly climbed back into the car and drove away.

Rawlings, Wyoming was less than seven hours away and driving like his brother for once, Sam was able to shave almost two hours off that time. It took almost another to reach the old Fossil Butte cowboy cemetery. He got there just as the first inklings of dawn shimmered in the horizon.

Sam got out of the car a chill running through him. Monumental things happened here. Things that affected him, affected his brother, the world. Not all of them had been bad, but neither had they all been good. He never thought he'd have to step foot inside this place again.

He grabbed a lamp out of the trunk and slipping the Colt from behind the small of his back, he started forward.

The tall iron rod gates opened with a rusted squeak as he pushed them forward. The iron rod fence circling the place was bent and broken in places. Most of the vegetation woven through it and the wild grass inside was dead, as if their life had been sucked out by their mere proximity to the gate. Dozens of headstones from the mid 1800's formed winding rows – giant crosses, tall monuments, a few encircled by their own private fencing, but most looking like regular tombstones – the majority of them facing in the direction of the cemetery's one crypt, which dominated the back of the place. The granite structure was built in an old style, patterned most likely after ancient Greek temples.

This was the place where Sam had first learned he had died and of Dean's deal. This was the place where the Winchester quest had finally been realized and Azazel, their mother's murderer, had been destroyed. It was also the place where their father's soul had been freed from Hell's embrace. And if God and luck were with him, Sam hoped to repeat that feat for his brother's sake.

He walked toward the crypt, noting its overlapping double doors and the intricate lock which used the Colt as its key. Giant curved hinges bolted the doors to the stone edifice. The doors held a couple of rings set about five feet high as if at some point they may have been chained shut as well. In the center, an outer gold circle, the strands branching from it made to look like barbwire. Two inner circles with crossing strands connected to those with the outer circle and made a golden pentagram. At the dead center, lay a raised hole to take the gun.

The light wavered over the heavy door as Sam's hands shook – this very spot a place of bittersweet triumph and utter failure. Though the body was gone, Jake's blood had stained the earth permanently black – a remnant of his evil taint. It was here that Sam had proved victorious over the man who'd killed him. And though he'd helped save Ellen from Jake's mind control, the purity of the act had only been in the first shot. After that Sam had been controlled by pure unadulterated hatred pushing him to put a total of four bullets into the man's back. His shame at this was made worse by the fact he'd actually enjoyed Jake's attempts at pleading for his life before he took it away by planting three more slugs inside him. The sense of betrayal after all he'd done to try to help Jake understand their situation and then choosing not to take his life only to be stabbed by him had totally blinded him. The warm satisfaction and pleasure he felt as each bullet rang from his gun to plummet into his foe's flesh, Jake's hot blood splashing on his cheek and the metal doors that had brought him there, had been a sin all on their own. Guilt and disgrace had washed over him later as he'd come to realize too that he could have possibly stopped the doors from ever opening after he shot Jake the first time, the gun only just starting to move the mechanism to unlock it, yet he'd been too consumed by his base emotions to notice or care.

The only consolation had been that by opening, the opportunity was there for his father to escape. But so had hundreds of demons. And if not for Bobby and Ellen, the number could have easily risen into the thousands.

Now he was here to tempt fate yet again.

Sam closed his eyes and focused on an image of his brother in his mind. "Dean… Dean if you can hear me… If there's any way at all, come to the Devil's Gate. I'm going to open it. I'm going to set you free. Come to me!"

Swallowing hard, his hands shaking even worse than before, Sam slipped the barrel of the Colt into the lock and turned it to the right.

Nothing happened.

The ensuing silence was like a slap in the face.

"No. No! You have to work!" Sam grabbed the gun, turned it to the left, pulled it out, stuck it back in and turned it to the right again.

Nothing.

"No! Open, damn you! _Open_!" He kicked at the door with the bottom of his foot. "OPEN!"

He'd damaged it. Somehow when Bobby took the gun apart, he'd damaged it. Or Sam hadn't put it back together correctly. Or more likely it was the fact the revolver's chamber was empty, the last bullet spent to destroy Azazel and it too was somehow an intricate part of the unlocking mechanism. Dean might have used up the one thing that would have been able to set him free.

Sam stared at the metal door anger and rising despair twisting his face. He spreads his arms wide as if inviting an attack and smacked them against the metal as he yelled for everything he was worth. "_Open you mother fucking door_! Let my brother OUT!"

Sam had promised him. He'd promised Dean he would save him and he'd not done it. Then he'd promised him he would get him out. And he'd _failed_! AGAIN.

He never asked Dean to trade his life for his. Would have _never_ asked it. Sam had died due to his own foolishness. Why did his brother have to pay and suffer for his mistakes? _Why?_

He banged on the closed doors yanking the Colt from the lock and using it to beat at the metal. He would claw his way in if he had to. He would get his brother out!

"_Dean_!"


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

The moment Bobby opened his eyes he knew something was wrong. He didn't question it. Instinct, like so many other skills, could be honed, made to work for you. And it could save your life. But only if you learned how to interpret the signals it sent.

It was the house. Something wasn't as it should be. Just like a ship or a car, houses had their own cadence, things they could tell you if you were only willing to listen. He'd owned this house for over twenty years. It was a reminder of happier times, of young hopes and dreams, but also of how things could go terribly wrong when you least expected them to, and how no matter where you were, there was no such thing as safe.

When she creaked in the pantry, it meant a bad storm was coming from the north. When the wind moaned through the frames of the front windows, bad news were to be had. His house breathed with a life all her own – his one true stalwart companion. She was the only person on the entire planet who knew all his secrets.

Slipping out of bed onto bare feet, Bobby finally realized what she was trying to tell him. The house was empty, he was in it alone. And that wasn't right. There should have been that little extra feeling, the one telling him someone else was there. That slight displacement in the air's harmonics that let him know he was sharing his living space.

He grabbed his robe and rushed out the bedroom door.

A bad feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, Bobby first checked the downstairs guest bedroom. It looked like it had since the moment he'd brought Sam back with him, empty and unused. He pushed on to the living room and aside from the stacks of books around the couch showed no evidence the boy had recently been there. None of the books were open, no bookmarks poked out of any bindings. If anything they looked like they'd been stacked back neatly as if no longer needed. The bad feeling turned into a solid lump of dread.

"Sam?"

No answer.

He checked the bathroom, the dining room full of boxes – nothing. In the kitchen he found Sam's diner dishes neatly rinsed and piled in the sink. He checked upstairs, downstairs, the basement, calling his name out despite the certainty all along that there was no one to answer.

Not finding him anywhere, Bobby finally popped out the back barely feeling the rocks poking at his unprotected feet. The morning sunlight glinted off the piles of old rusting cars stacked all over the salvage yard, bird song filling the air as nature announced another beautiful day. The shiny black Impala that should have filled his questing gaze in the back wasn't there. She and Sam were gone.

Panic filling his throat, Bobby hurried back inside and tried to see if the boy had left him a note or any kind of message. Getting alarmed like this was stupid. Sam was a grown man. The kid probably just needed a little space or went out to grab something from town.

The excuses rang empty even as he thought them and he knew it. He found nothing. Sam was just gone.

Bobby stumbled over to the kitchen counter holding onto his stomach as if he'd been sucker punched. People came to him from all over the world for lore and information he'd ferreted out of the most obscure of places, yet he couldn't manage to keep track of a twenty-something kid. If anything happened to that boy…

He grabbed the phone by the wall and quickly dialed Sam's cell. He held his breath as it rang on the other end, willing, pleading for the boy to answer. After four rings the line clicked and Sam's voice came out of the earpiece. Bobby's heart jumped.

"Hi. You've reached Sam but I'm not available right now. Please leave a message after the tone."

Realizing it was just the voicemail recording, he pushed his disappointment and growing fear aside frantically trying to come up with what to say as the phone went into voicemail. "Sam, it's Bobby. Give me a call, won't you?"

He hesitated, wracking his brain for what else he might say. Should he apologize for inadvertently running him off, scream at him for just up and leaving without a word, or plead at him to come back? In the end he just left it as it was and hung up.

Now it was all up to Sam.

Somehow the thought didn't make him feel any better about this.

Running a hand through his thinning hair, Bobby stared around him, the emptiness of his house nipping at him. Though he normally enjoyed his solitude, this emptiness was different than the restful feeling he usually was embraced with in his home. Now it was full of unfinished business, of failed promises, of loss. There was no comfort to be had here.

Whether he liked it or not, the Winchester boys had come to mean a lot. They'd filled a need he never even realized existed. He wanted better for them -- the cards fate had dealt them cruel and demanding. When Sam died, it had been devastating. Dean's deep spiral into depression totally frightening. Bobby still blamed himself for having let him drive him away, of not having the courage to push and try to help the boy, bumbling and blind a help as it might have been. Left to his despair, his main reason for living destroyed and faulting himself for it, Dean had taken a forbidden path. One Bobby would have bet Dean would never take, not even for Sam. Not after the destruction it had caused in his own life when his father chose that road. But he'd been wrong, so very wrong.

It'd hurt to look at him and have to pretend when the two of them came back and he realized what Dean had done. Yet the volcano had been capped, the relief at having his brother back, his purpose, shone like a star from his every expression. No looking back, no regrets. Like father like son.

And a whole year to get used to the fact Dean would be taken from them. As if any amount of time would have been enough.

Now Dean was gone and his brother no more able to handle the loss than his older sibling. And though he'd pushed, Bobby still hadn't been able to do enough. Instead of one brother, he was losing both. He couldn't let it happen. He didn't want his life to go back to what it had been before. Sam needed to be saved, helped, so he could live like his brother wanted, not end up throwing the sacrifice away in a bed of remorse and pain.

Bobby rushed upstairs to get dressed. Maybe if he was lucky Sam hadn't left too long ago. If fortune was with him he might spot him in town or be able to find some trace of him and figure out at least in which direction he went. Doing anything would be better than staying here and be surrounded by the guilt ridden emptiness of Sam's leaving.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

Sam stared in misery and growing defeat at the Devil's Gate's mocking metal doors.

For hours he'd beat on them, shot at them, took a shovel to them, a crowbar, anything he could think of in an attempt to get them open. Nothing worked. Acrid smoke forced him to step away coughing as his attempt to burn the doors failed as horribly as everything else he'd tried.

What if Dean had heard him earlier? What if he was on the other side of that door just waiting for Sam to do his part? He gathered his will and ordered the door to open, but still nothing. What was the point of being a freak and being tainted with demon's blood if he couldn't even open one lousy door with his supposed powers?

_Sammy, that's enough_.

"No! I have to get you _out_." He glanced frantically around him. "There has to be a way!" Aside from old crumbling tombstones, dead grass, and the tools he'd already tried to use on the crypt he saw nothing he could use to help him. Beyond the small cemetery gates were only trees and fields and the Impala.

His gaze hovered back over the car, wondering if driving her at the doors at full speed might make an impact. Yet the entrance into the cemetery was too small and there were too many tombstones in the way. Besides, if it somehow miraculously worked, Dean would kill him for trashing the car – if Sam survived crashing it in the first place.

He grabbed his head with his hands and tried to squeeze some kind of idea out of it. As nothing came, his breathing grew faster and faster. Black spots hovered at the edge of his vision, panic eating his insides. He collapsed to his knees knowing if he didn't stop this he would hyperventilate. He lowered his head to the ground trying to calm down and ease his breathing. Blacking out wouldn't serve anything right now. Just another failure he could add to the ever growing list.

_Sam, remember what Dad taught you. Okay? And remember what I taught you…_

And what exactly was that? Hunting, surviving, pulling off money scams. How was any of that of any help right now? "God, help me!" His voice broke with despair. "_Someone_ help me!"

But that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Little Sammy couldn't do anything on his own. Always had to have help. His father saved him from the demon fire, Dean helped and protected him growing up, Jess had showed him how to be normal. He'd not done a single thing on his own, never succeeded at anything truly on his own. He beat the ground in frustration with already sore fists.

What was he supposed to do?

Then like a rush of cold water it came to him. There'd been one thing neither his father nor his brother had done on their own. One thing they'd had to call on for help, one thing they'd not been able to manage alone. The one thing they had indeed taught him that could help him right now…A fool proof way to bring someone back from the dead…

There just weren't any other options anymore.

_Sam, we're not going to make the same mistakes all over again._

No, he wouldn't. Because he wouldn't just break the pattern, he would _end_ it. He would get rid of the reason all this madness started in the first place – himself.

_Sammy, don't do this. You promised_!

"Shut up, Dean."

It would be so easy. So very, very easy. All he'd have to do was die. And why not?

Except he didn't want to. He wanted to live. Had always wanted to live. A normal life, a free life! Yet it'd been taken from him before he ever really got started, before he even knew what a life was. And every time it seemed he would get what he wanted, when he thought he might finally find what he was looking for, his hopes were utterly shattered. Even embracing the hunter's life hadn't been enough. No, he had demon's blood, and Azazel had plans for him. And when those plans were somehow destroyed, well, then those left behind couldn't stand to have him around now could they?

He wanted to live. But he had already died once. And he owed a debt, needed to fulfill at least one promise. Dean never even hesitated to trade his life for his, so why should he?

_Sammy, no._

Sam glanced toward the slightly scarred doors of the Devil's Gate. "Wait for me, Dean. I'll fulfill my promise. You'll see."

Dragging the tools of his efforts back with him to the car, Sam piled back into the Impala. His phone rang but he ignored it. He knew who was calling, who'd been calling. He regretted not being able to say thanks and to say good bye, but he couldn't risk it. Bobby was too sharp. He'd know something was up and maybe even what he was up to if he didn't already. He didn't want to take the chance, even though the older hunter wouldn't be able to find him in time.

_Sammy, you will NOT do this!_

"You can't stop me, Dean. I'm sorry." His eyes stung.

He put the car in gear. A trail of dust rose up behind him as he floored the gas. The road was but a blur in front of him, and he didn't care.

There were things he would need, stuff he'd have to prepare. But most of all he had to get himself together. He had to get this right.

_You know this is not what I want, Sam._

"Shut up."

_I don't want you to do this, Sammy. You know I don't. Stop this._

"Shut up. Shut up. Shut up!" He smacked the steering wheel, half missing a curve on the road and listing dangerously to the left. Dirt and grass flew past the driver's side window as the metal box he was driving angled dangerously. A few more inches and he would tip over into a half plowed field. Adrenaline shot into his bloodstream as he struggled to get the car back under control.

Several screeches and tire marks later and the Impala was on track again. Sam spotted a small gas station up ahead and made for it as if it were his salvation. Once in the parking lot, he shut the car down. His whole body shook.

He was a fool, a total fool. If he'd died back there… Gasping, he leaned forward against the steering wheel, hiding his face.

_Sammy…_

He knew it was his fear, his fear of dying, and what would happen to him down there that was talking and not his brother. The dread and uncertainty of what he had to do. At least unlike Dean, he wouldn't have the time to regret it or second guess himself. He also wouldn't be there to get screamed at. Once it was done it'd be done. Yet he had hours to kill before the grisly business could be seen to. Plenty of time to talk himself out of what he _must_ do.

He would not fail in this. He would not!

Taking in a shaky breath, he leaned back and stared at the car's ceiling. The void, the emptiness inside him without Dean was so…vast he could lose himself in it and never come back. And the guilt. How was he supposed to deal with the guilt? It had almost destroyed Dean when their father sacrificed himself for him. Though in his case there'd been more than that to drag him down. His father had asked him to watch over Sam, to make sure he didn't go dark side. And if he did, to rid the world of him. How much had their father known about what was going on? How long had he known?

Their father had left Dean with a horrid task. But Dean asked worse of Sam in the end – inaction. Something he himself hadn't been able to abide in Sam's case. And yet all this was Sam's fault! He had no choice but to do something.

_Sammy, please…_

"Enough." He opened the car's door and stumbled out, feeling abruptly trapped, enclosed. His stomach rumbled its needs which were in no way tied to his emotional problems.

Running a hand through his mussed hair, Sam made for the small store attached to the gas pumps. Feeding his body was motion, doing something, not sitting still and stewing in his own thoughts. Thinking too much had been his curse since he was two. You could drive yourself crazy that way.

A soft buzzer announced his presence as he pushed the shop's door open. Shambling forward he trolled for snacks and any other food they might have, not wanting to have to stop again before he followed through on his plans that night.

Already having snagged an armful, he stopped at the back and stared unseeing for a moment at the racks of different types of beers and hard liquor available for purchase.

_Don't do this._

Wyoming was wet… A smile tugged at his lips though it was totally devoid of humor. Here was another lesson from his father he could make use of. All of John Winchester's favorite friends were here – Jim, Jack, Jose, and all the rest. Friends who would silence the voices, dull the memories and fear, pump him full of fake courage until what needed to get done got done.

A sick kind of hope flared inside him.

Sam's suddenly determined and steady hand reached forward.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13

"We're sorry, but the number you're trying to reach has either been disconnected or is no longer in service. If you feel you've reached this message in error, please hang up and dial again."

Bobby pulled the phone away from his ear and stared at it in growing dismay. For the last week he'd called Sam every day, several times a day, hoping, praying the kid would pick up or call him back. But never had he expected this.

Sam had cancelled his phone. Cut off the one lifeline Bobby still had to the boy. What did it mean? The sickening feeling in his gut was sure it wasn't something good.

He'd learned long ago that when a Winchester got it into his head to disappear, there would be no finding him unless he wanted to be found. Nevertheless Bobby had put out feelers to every contact he had, called in favors where he could, scoured for supernatural signs, demonic activity, anything he could think of just to get a hint of where Sam might have gone.

A couple of wild goose chases had brought him nothing but disappointment and frustration. Still, having the ability to at least leave messages had been something. He'd never pleaded so desperately or argued as persuasively as he had in those messages. Yet he'd heard nothing back. He didn't even have the faintest idea if they had been listened to or been totally deleted out of hand.

Bobby put the phone back on the cradle and turned away.

Now he didn't even have the faint hope he might somehow reach him. Worse, he could only think that Sam would cut him off completely only because he was involved in things he would not approve of. And the types of things that fell in that category made Bobby's blood run cold.

One though, one stood out above the rest. The only one they didn't have lore on, the one they didn't know the true possible results of, the one which might give Sam false hope – his untapped demonic powers.

Dean had asked him once if he thought something was wrong with his brother. That maybe he'd come back different when raised from the dead by the crossroads demon. Before his destruction Azazel had gone out of his way to seed demonic doubts in the boy as if the weight of selling his soul weren't enough to contend with. It was a good thing Bobby was such an accomplished poker player. There was no way to discover the truth of the demon's words and that type of doubt could eat you up like a cancer if left unchecked – Dean would have started seeing differences in his brother whether they were there or not. From what Bobby had seen, Sam was Sam. A harsher, at times colder version, one growing more and more like his father – doing things because they needed to be done and damn the consequences – but still Sam. The look on his face as he took down Jake was enough to let anyone know he'd been at least partially affected by the things that had happened to him – no demonic interference necessary. So he had told Dean that no, demons lied. That he was sure Sam was okay. Yet it didn't mean Sam hadn't changed or that he'd become normal with YED's death.

He'd pretty much suspected Sam still had powers whether the boy thought so or not, especially after how he was able to defeat the lunatic using dream root to kill people in their sleep by turning the tables on him so quickly. He asked Sam about it at the time and the kid seemed surprised as if it had never crossed his mind. Sam said he didn't think so. But then the two brothers had assumed Sam's budding powers had either left him or gone dormant with the demon's demise.

Bobby had suspected different, but that was his own counsel to keep. Nothing would have been gained by telling them and having them worry over it. Yet Sam's confrontation with Lilith would have brought all of that back. Sam had said nothing about the encounter, but he didn't need to. The fact he was alive and Lilith fled spoke volumes.

This would give Sam an option to explore which hadn't been there before. One Bobby felt wouldn't end well if the other psychic children were any indication. Yet the more he thought about it, the more he feared this was the very avenue Sam would choose to take.

And there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

He had lost him. In the end, despite all his efforts, he had lost them _both_.

Bobby stumbled into the study, needing to sit down, his legs no longer steady. The chair creaked as he dumped himself behind his desk. He stared at its scarred surface as if it alone might hold the world at bay for him, maybe even protect him from the things he knew.

He had failed every person who'd ever truly meant anything to him – his wife, Dean, and now Sam. And there was still an army of demons on the loose planning who knew what, with possibly no one to stop them from completing their goals. The end of the world had never been more imminent.

He doubted he ever felt more impotent in his entire life as he did at that moment. And he was somehow sure the feeling wouldn't go away anytime soon. He had failed – failed when those who counted on him needed him most. And there wouldn't be any second chances this time around.

Feeling weighed down, Bobby glanced around him at a lifetime of accumulated research and of trying to save others from the dangers of ignorance regarding the unknown, and for the first time ever knew he could never do enough. That his efforts would always fall short no matter how hard he pushed. Everything he'd done and tried to achieve only an exercise in eventual failure.

With numb fingers Bobby opened the bottom drawer of his desk. He stared at the bottle and shot glass nestled inside, usually reserved as a treat for a job well done. But not today.

He pulled out the bottle of Gilbert Hadrian Black Scotch Whiskey and stared at the amber liquid as he filled the glass. He drank it down in one gulp, embracing the burn as it worked its way down his throat and into his empty stomach.

He filled the glass again and sent the second serving right after the first. Soon a warm glow spread through his limbs. A little later, his thoughts took more effort to keep together. But then he had no intension of even trying.

There was no point to thinking. Forgetting was where the appeal lay – even if it couldn't be forever. Just as long as the weight just felt a little less.

The End

NOTES: First off, many thanks for reading! Do appreciate it. Hope it was worth it.

Second, I swear I thought I would have to go and strangle Kripke. My brain had assumed that the last episode in season 3 had been in the same state as the beginning of season 4, till I went and researched it. Of course "show" didn't give any explanation for the 5 hour difference in location. Now I am grateful for it as it led to me a solution I thought came out pretty well. Guess I will let him live…for now… :P

Third, I will share something cool/creepy with you. Under google maps, type in Humiston Woods Prairie Forrest Illinois. Then click on the Blue A and it will show you a picture (Or if this works, click this url .com/maps?q=gilbert%20hadrian&rls=:*:IE-SearchBox&ie=UTF-8&oe=UTF-8&sourceid=ie7&rlz=1I7DKUS_en&um=1&sa=N&tab=wl) Don't know if Kripke and them searched for woods in the area of Pontiac like I did, but this picture of the prairie is a dead ringer for the look they used for Dean's grave. I thought it was the coolest thing ever! Creeped out my beta though. Bwahahaha!

And finally, thanks to Kaz for looking the stuff over for me. Never hurts to have one extra set of eyes before releasing things into the wild. Thanks!


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